The bass line from Heart's "Barracuda" thrums through my bones as I settle onto my usual stool, watching Miguel's practiced hands work behind the bar. The refurbished space gleams under warm lighting, but tonight feels heavier somehow—like the weight of healing hangs thick in the air between conversation and silence.
Miguel slides a crystal tumbler across the polished wood, amber liquid catching the light like liquid fire. Maker's Mark tonight, Mom. Figured you needed something smooth after the day we've all had.
I lift the glass, inhaling the vanilla and oak notes before taking a slow sip. The bourbon burns just right, warming the hollows that seem to echo with unspoken pain tonight. From my perch, I can see Phoenix curled impossibly small in Ezra's beanbag chair, their rainbow hair catching the light like a broken prism. River sits nearby in hospital scrubs, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to avoid triggering whatever invisible boundaries trauma has carved into Phoenix's space.
The kitchen sizzles with Della's latest creation—blackened catfish that fills the basement with smoke and spice. She emerges wielding a spatula like a weapon, her femme butch energy crackling as she surveys the room with sharp eyes.
Anybody else feel like the world's gone to absolute shit today? Della's voice cuts through Queen's "We Will Rock You" bleeding from the speakers. That conservative fuck, Charlie Kirk, getting shot at his own goddamn rally has every fascist with a platform screaming for blood.
Julie shifts on her stool, diet cola fizzing against her whiskey glass. At seventy-one, she's seen enough political upheaval to know when storms are brewing. Trump's gonna use this to justify every fucking thing he wants to do to people like us. Mark my words.
People like us have always been targets, Grubby speaks quietly from their corner, words carrying weight that makes everyone pause. Their intersex experience has taught them about existing in spaces society refuses to acknowledge. The difference is now they don't have to pretend to be civilized about it.
Phoenix flinches at the word 'targets,' their body pulling tighter into itself. River notices immediately, their nursing instincts kicking in as they carefully modulate their voice. Hey, we're safe here. This basement, these people—we're family.
But Phoenix's eyes dart toward the door, toward escape routes, toward anywhere but River's concerned face. I remember that look—the way trauma rewires your brain to see danger in the gentlest gestures. The ruby ring on Phoenix's finger catches the light, River's promise of permanence, but right now it probably feels like a chain.
Ezra bounces slightly in their chair, blue hair shifting as they try to inject lightness into the suffocating atmosphere. Remember when our biggest worry was which pronoun some asshole would use? Now we're worried about being fucking executed for existing.
Language, kiddo, I murmur, though there's no real admonishment in it. Some situations require the full spectrum of human expression, and this is definitely one of them.
Keira appears beside me, her presence both grounding and electric. She doesn't touch, doesn't need to—her strength flows through words instead. Phoenix, honey, you know River's not going anywhere, right? Even when you can't feel it? I speak in a soft motherly tone.
Phoenix's response comes out strangled, barely audible over Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" now drifting from the speakers. The irony isn't lost on me—I used to sing this one with Gizmo during car rides when she was little, before distance and misunderstanding built walls between us. The memory stings fresh, makes my throat tight with unshed tears.
I can't... every time they touch me, I see those motherfuckers' faces. I want to want River's hands on me, but my body just... shuts down. It's like I'm betraying everything we built together.
River's scrubs rustle as they shift, keeping that careful distance. You're not betraying anything. Your body is protecting you the only way it knows how. I'd rather wait forever than push you past what feels safe.
Marcus, nursing his usual beer while contemplating the complexity of bisexual visibility, nods slowly. Trauma doesn't give a fuck about your timeline. It rewrites the rules without asking permission.
Renee flexes unconsciously, her bodybuilder frame testament to physical strength that couldn't protect against emotional devastation. I spent years thinking I was broken because I couldn't let anyone get close. Turns out healing isn't about becoming who you were before—it's about becoming who you're meant to be after.
Miguel refills my bourbon without being asked, his movements graceful despite the weight of managing his own transition story. Behind him, Genesis's "Misunderstanding" provides soundtrack to our collective attempts at making sense of senselessness.
The fucked-up thing, Della calls from the kitchen, flipping fish with aggressive precision, is that bastard getting killed just gives them more excuse to paint us as the violent ones. Like we haven't been getting murdered in the streets for decades.
Projection is their favorite weapon, Sarah observes, her stoic demeanor cracking slightly. They commit violence then claim victimhood when it touches their own.
Phoenix uncurls slightly, engagement with the political conversation pulling them partially from internal spiral. I keep thinking about all the kids like me who don't have this place. Who don't have River, or you all, or... Their voice breaks, gestures encompassing our makeshift family.
Mom, Phoenix looks directly at me, using the title that never fails to hit me square in the chest, how do you trust someone again when your body remembers everything?
The question hangs in air thick with Della's cooking smoke and unresolved pain. I take another sip of bourbon, feeling its burn center me in the present moment rather than the memories Phoenix's words summon.
Baby, I say carefully, your body remembers the bad shit because it's trying to keep you alive. That's not weakness—that's survival programming doing exactly what it's designed to do. The trick isn't forgetting or pushing through. It's teaching your nervous system that River's touch means safety, not danger.
River's eyes fill with understanding, with patience that spans lifetimes. We can start so small it doesn't even count as touching. Sitting close. Letting our knees bump. Building new muscle memory one tiny moment at a time.
The room settles into contemplative silence broken only by the crackle of catfish in Della's skillet and the opening notes of Def Leppard's "Foolin’"—another song that takes me straight back to Gizmo bouncing in her car seat, both of us singing off-key and not giving a damn. The memory makes my chest ache with missing her, with wondering if she thinks of those moments too.
Julie breaks the quiet with characteristic bluntness. That dead conservative prick's followers are gonna come for all of us harder now. Phoenix, honey, what happened to you in that alley? That's just the beginning if we don't fight back.
Fighting back doesn't mean becoming them, Ezra protests, their youthful idealism still intact despite everything. We can resist without losing our souls.
Tell that to the next kid who gets beaten bloody for existing, Grubby responds quietly, their words carrying weight of lived experience in spaces between accepted categories.
Phoenix reaches tentatively toward River, fingers trembling as they brush against River's wrist. The contact lasts maybe three seconds before Phoenix pulls back, but River's smile could power the entire building.
That was perfect, River whispers. Three seconds of perfect.
Miguel watches this exchange while cleaning glasses, his expression soft with recognition. Behind him, Alice Cooper's "Poison" pounds through speakers, providing rhythm for conversations about love and loss and the space between wanting and being able to receive.
Della emerges with platters of perfectly blackened fish, the smell making everyone's mouths water despite heavy topics. She sets plates down with characteristic firmness, her way of nurturing through sustenance when words fail.
Eat, she commands. All this talk about trauma and politics and healing—can't do any of it on empty stomachs.
As we dig into food that tastes like love made manifest, Phoenix manages another brief touch—this time their pinkie barely grazing River's thumb. River doesn't react except for that smile getting slightly wider, understanding that healing happens in increments too small to measure but too important to ignore.
The conversation shifts naturally, everyone giving Phoenix space to navigate their own recovery timeline. Julie complains about her ex-husband's latest stupidity while nursing her whiskey and diet cola combination. Marcus shares stories about explaining bisexuality to his girlfriend's family. Renee describes her latest workout routine with the kind of detail that makes everyone else feel exhausted.
But underneath the normalcy, we're all aware of Phoenix and River's careful dance—the way they're rebuilding intimacy one microscopic moment at a time, creating new patterns to override trauma's insistent rewiring.
Mom, Phoenix says again as the evening winds down, will you tell me it gets easier?
I finish my bourbon, feeling its warmth settle into honesty. "It gets different, baby. Not easier, exactly, but different. Your body learns new stories to tell itself. River's patience becomes part of your nervous system's vocabulary. And someday—maybe not soon, but someday—touch will mean comfort again instead of terror."
River nods, understanding their role in this slow rebuilding. I'm not going anywhere. Whether it takes weeks or years or decades—I'm here for all of it.
Outside, the world churns with political violence and rising fascism. Inside The Sanctuary, two young people navigate the delicate architecture of love after trauma, surrounded by chosen family who understand that healing happens not in grand gestures but in three-second touches and the space held between wanting and being ready.
As Boston's "More Than a Feeling" fades from the speakers, I watch Phoenix risk one more brief contact—their palm flat against River's for maybe five seconds this time. Progress measured not in distance covered but in courage gathered, in trust slowly rebuilding itself from the foundation up.
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." - Rumi
Sometimes healing isn't about returning to who we were before trauma touched us—it's about discovering who we become when love learns to speak the language our wounded parts can understand. In The Sanctuary's warm light, two souls practice the careful choreography of rebuilding intimacy, proving that even the deepest hurts can be transformed into doorways for deeper connection.
Acceptance is the flip side of trust. Phoenix relearns to trust because of River's acceptance of Phoenix's lost trust. He doesn't run, or minimize, or scold, or try to reassure. He just accepts those miniscule tokens of healing that come his way. He is trusting, too, that Phoenix can heal, will heal, and will return to him stronger than ever. Smart guy, that River.
Given the amount of trauma most queer folk encounter in their life, it's a wonder that any relationships develop at all.