The Dye Job

“Holden’s gonna kill you.” Yes, the pink stains on the green tiles could be Theodore’s death sentence, but he didn’t really care. He would clean it afterward. His hands inside the plastic gloves mushed through Tate’s hair, making squelching noises as if walking through mud. Except that the color was a hot pink instead of brown. Theodore didn’t know what to do on his day off, but thankfully it was a Monday, and Mondays were also Tate’s off days.
“Stop dying my forehead!” Tate swatted at his arms, only making Theodore miss more, and he pulled at the pink strands of hair.
“If your forehead weren’t so big it would be easier! Now stop moving so much.” Tate muttered something under his breath, slumping more against the bathtub on whose frame Theodore sat, Tate between his knees.
“Ok, now we have to wait for thirty minutes.”
“The worst part. Oh my god, it stings in my nose.” Tate’s voice was nasally as he pinched it close. Theodore rolled his eyes. They started cleaning up.
“Come on, we need to wash it out.”
As Tate crouched over the tub the ring on his necklace slipped out of his collar, swinging against the porcelain with a clink, the ring matching Isiah’s. They told him about their first date some day, how they drank Blue Nun on the hospital roof, how Tate walked Isiah home and picked a blanket flower for him, and when Isiah told Tate he didn’t even have a vase, Tate just put the flower into the empty wine bottle and informed Isiah that now he did, and after years of being together Isiah brought that same wine bottle to a glassblower who made their rings out of it. “How long have you and Isiah been together?” Theodore watched the color come off Tate’s hair and swirl around the tub in a pink maelstrom until it was washed down the drain.
“About six years now.” The smile was audible. Tate always spoke fondly of Isiah even when he was complaining and Theodore shivered every time he heard it, something green like the tiles in the bathroom pulled at his insides.
“Did you never have a problem with-“ He didn’t know how to continue. “With, you know, being- not liking women?” Theodore watched as a green scarab beetle lazily wandered on the tiny window sill, it’s chromatic green colors glistening in the sunlight. Theodore hated beetles. He felt Tate shrug as he mused his hands through the strands, pressing more color out of them, leaving the water an intense shade of pink. “Not really. I mean, there never was a way to stop it or anything.”
“You don’t think there is?”
“No. It’s like- like your heart pumping blood. It’s just something you can’t stop or control. You can try to run from it, but it’s a part of you, it’ll always catch up, and you’ll only make yourself miserable in the long run. And you’ll probably become a raging homophobic, which is not cool.” For a moment there was only silence and the sound of the running water and the silence seemed louder than before and Theodore was so glad Tate’s head was inside the tub, he wouldn’t have been able to meet his eyes. He remembered the words of preachers, carefully chosen words he never wanted to listen to, remembered the words his parents said, the words everyone said, and he never doubted it, it never concerned him. Until one day it did. But those words were burned into his mind like a livestock branding. Theodore thought of Holden and his warmth, the warmth he transmitted to Theodore and he shivered.
“I don’t feel like this is about me.” Theodore said nothing and knew it was answer enough.