Page 77 of Unbound
"Right, I can't do this anymore," they announced to the room at large. "This silent, respectful waiting thing is actively corroding my soul. We need a distraction. A terrible, glorious distraction." Their eyes gleamed with manic energy. "It is time... for Bad Movie Night."
Andrew looked up from his laptop, his brow furrowed. "Phoenix, I'm not sure a cinematic diversion is appropriate given the potential legal ramifications we're—"
"It isentirelyappropriate," Phoenix declared, already scrolling through a streaming service with furious intent. "We can't control the judge. We can't control his psycho father. But we cancontrol our God-given right to mercilessly mock terrible acting. Ah-ha! Found it." They held up the remote like a trophy. "Galaxy Gladiators of Gorgon-5."
Sam, from their armchair, let out a long-suffering sigh. "Ah, yes. The one where the main villain's helmet is clearly a painted colander."
"It's a masterpiece of budgetary constraints!" Phoenix insisted, dimming the lights. "Diana, popcorn protocol, please!"
Diana, looking relieved to have a mission, hustled into the kitchen. Adrian sat down next to me on the couch, draping an arm over my shoulders. This time last week the contact would have sent me scrambling for polite distance. Tonight, though, something different happened - my body melted into his side before my mind could protest, my face instinctively finding the warm hollow between his shoulder and collarbone like it belonged there.
Perhaps it was the adrenaline crash leaving me too exhausted to fight instinct. Perhaps it was the way Adrian inexplicably smelled like safety to me. Or perhaps, after years of flinching from touch that always came with conditions, I was starving for contact that asked nothing of me but to exist.
"Just go with it," Adrian murmured, his breath warm against my ear, thumb tracing idle circles on my upper arm. The gesture should have felt condescending. Instead, it sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. "It's how they cope. Better than staring at the wall."
How strange - none of my carefully memorized scriptures ever mentioned that hands could speak their own language. The firm press of his palm against my shoulder saidI'm here.The rhythm of his thumb saidYou're alive.The heat radiating from his side saidStay.And for once in my life, I couldn't remember a single reason why I shouldn't.
A moment later, Diana returned with two huge bowls of popcorn, and the movie began. As a giant, rubbery monster appeared on screen, the commentary became a running symphony of sarcasm.
"His laser pistol is a glue gun with an LED taped to it," Sam observed, their voice bone-dry. "I respect the hustle."
"Why is she running from the Gorgonoid in stilettos?” Diana demanded of the screen. "You're in an alien swamp, Jennifer! Wear some goddamn practical footwear for fucks sakes!”
I watched them, a silent observer in their strange, chaotic ritual. They weren't ignoring the anxiety; they were fighting it.
Adrian leaned in close as the monster waved its tentacles menacingly. "Terrifying, right? I think we have that bath mat."
A small, unfamiliar sound escaped my lips before I could stop it. A quiet huff of air, almost a laugh. Adrian squeezed my shoulder, his smile warm in the flickering darkness.
On screen, the hero struck a pose, his jaw set heroically. "I cannot let the Gorgonoid menace consume the innocent star-children of Nebula-9!" he boomed, his voice echoing with cheap reverb.
It was too much for Phoenix. They shot to their feet, clutched their chest dramatically, and began to silently lip-sync along, their expression one of operatic agony. They mimed wiping away a single, noble tear as the camera zoomed in on the hero's face.
Diana threw a piece of popcorn at them. Andrew sighed, "His emotional appeal is completely unsupported by the presented facts."
It was the combination of it all—the glue-gun pistol, the bath-mat monster, Diana's outrage over footwear, and Phoenix's ridiculous, heartfelt pantomime. A strange feeling bubbled up in my chest, foreign and uncontrollable. It started as a snort, which I tried desperately to stifle behind my hand.
But it was no use.
The snort turned into a full-blown laugh. It burst out of me, sharp and loud and real, echoing in the dark room for a brief second before being swallowed by the movie's synthesizer score. The sound shocked me more than anyone. My hand fell from my mouth, my eyes wide.
The movie kept playing. Phoenix continued their performance. But for a moment, the room was connected in a silent, shared victory. Diana's eyes met mine over the popcorn bowl, a soft, happy smile on her face. Sam gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod from their armchair.
Adrian didn't say anything. He just tightened his arm around me, his hand finding mine in the dark and lacing our fingers together.
The laughter had stolen the air from my lungs, but it left something else in its place. A lightness. The knot in my stomach was still there, the fear about tomorrow was still real, but for the first time since I'd fled into the pre-dawn darkness, I felt a flicker of something other than terror. The laugh had felt like breaking the surface of the water after being submerged for too long, a desperate, life-affirming gasp of air. It was a sound that belonged to me.
ADRIAN
Wednesday morning. The courthouse felt like a cathedral—high ceilings, marble floors, everything designed to make you feel small. Jesse sat at our table barely holding it together, flinching every time someone's heels clicked on the marble, unable to make eye contact with anyone.
I sat directly behind him with the rest of the fraternity members. Our chosen family, showing up for one of our own.
David and Catherine Miller arrived with the congregation and their attorney—expensive suit, slicked-back hair, the kind of lawyer who charged by the syllable. This was serious. They meant to win.
Professor Okonkwo presented our case with quiet authority. Jesse was an adult with constitutional rights to freedom of association and belief. Conversion therapy was recognized as harmful by every major medical organization. His parents' plan posed clear and present danger to his physical and mental wellbeing. We requested a protective order preventing them from removing Jesse from Kansas or Missouri.
The parents' attorney argued back with equal conviction for conservatorship. Jesse was mentally unstable—the public kiss as evidence of a breakdown. He had a history of "mental illness" requiring professional treatment. His parents had not only the right but the obligation to ensure their adult child received necessary care. Restoration Ridge was a medically licensed facility in the state of Montana, not some torture chamber. Jesse's current living situation—a fraternity house full of college students—was clearly unstable and unhealthy.
