SIX WEEKS LATER

Sam

Waiting in a row of plastic chairs has become almost a running gag for me and Rose at this point; especially when one of us is an anxious wreck and the other has to calm them down.

This time, the plastic chairs are a soft gray, and Rose is the one who needs calming down.

"Hey," I tell her, squeezing her trembling hand lightly. Her hand is also fairly sweaty, but I don't care. "It will be okay. I promise."

Even as she trembles, Rose lets out a snort at that. "As if those promises of yours have ever worked," she reminds me, but there is no malice in her voice. She means it not as an insult towards me, but more as a reminder.

I nod in understanding, and just squeeze her hand one more time before letting go, allowing her to resume tapping her fingers restlessly on her legs.

On my other side, Mom's expression is unreadable. She mainly stares towards the office doors down the hallway behind the check-in counter, every now and then sparing Rose and I a glance before looking away if she sees that we are glancing at her also.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

DANNY BOY <3: So what's the verdict???

ME: We're still waiting :(

DANNY BOY <3: Damn! What's the hold up? Do I need to go down there?

I let out a low chuckle as I type out my response, No babe. I'm sure we'll be called in soon. Now put your phone away before you get in trouble!

DANNY BOY <3: How can I pay attention in math when my favorite idiot isn't here to bother me? :(((

ME: Lol sorry. Should be back before long tho. I don't think this'll take more than 30 minutes.

DANNY BOY <3: Good. How's your chest?

ME: *eye rolling emoji* Still hurts whenever I think about it, thanks for asking.

DANNY BOY <3: Whoops, sorry.

About a week after the spring dance, when my chest still hurt like a motherfucker, I finally asked Mom to take me to the ER. Turns out, I had a cracked rib from all the pressure on my bound up chest that night. When I admitted to the doctor (with my mom in the room) that I had been using an ace bandage to bind my chest, she told me I was lucky the rib wasn't broken.

Luckily, the fracture will heal on its own....in about two months. Needless to say, I haven't bound my chest since.

Like I told Dan, it really only hurts when I think about it too much at this point, which is why I really wish we would get called in already so that I have something else to focus on.

As if on cue, the familiar bearded face and lean figure of Dr. Porter comes into the waiting room. "Wyatt family?" He announces when he sees us, but it isn't a question. All three of us have known him for going on five weeks now.

Mom is the first to stand up. "Thanks for squeezing us in today," she tells him. "I had to pull the twins out of school, but I know this is important."

"That it is," he says with a smile, then looks at me and winks.

I smile back at him. Though Dr. Porter is our family therapist here at Meadows Mental Health Center, he is also my individual therapist. Rosie has a different one, some lady named Dr. Kline. I was told they try to give siblings different therapists to prevent any possible bias, which I guess I understand

Dr. Porter leads the three of us into his office- a low-lit room with a large blue sofa and two chairs that match. On the coffee table in between the sofa and his desk sits a potted evergreen plant, which I like to stare at whenever I talk about particularly tough things in this office.

I sit on the couch in between Rose and Mom, just like back in the waiting room, and give Rose's hand yet another supportive squeeze.

"So," Dr. Porter begins, shuffling through several pages of notes on his desk. He scratches at his graying beard, which I've noticed he does when he is deep in thought. He then pauses for so long that I start to get frustrated.

"So what?" I demand, my leg now shaking almost as intensely as Rose's.

Mom shoots me a look. "Don't be rude, Sam."

But Dr. Porter only smirks at me, more than familiar with my angry outbursts. One time, he straight up asked me if I ever stopped to consider that my rage just might be a mask to hide more vulnerable emotions, such as sadness and anxiety.

I, naturally, told him to shut the hell up.

"Well, I've just been reading over Dr. Kline's notes to make sure we're on the same page," he continues. "And it looks like we are."

Rose and I both look at each other, and the glint of hope in her eyes reflects directly back into mine. I know in this moment that our thoughts are the same. Please God. Please please PLEASE let it be true. Please.

"As you know," he continues, speaking directly to our mom now. "Your twins have both been diagnosed with gender dysphoria."

Mom flinches only slightly now, truly an improvement since her reaction at our intake appointment; she sobbed for almost the whole hour.

"Yes," she says now with a slow nod. "I know."

"Which, I must emphasize, is quite rare." Dr. Porter's eyes hold the fascination of someone who did not go into his field for the money, but because he is truly interested in the subject matter. "Did you know that in twin studies on transgender populations, maybe four percent of fraternal twins turn out to both identify as trans. If that. It's much more likely in identical twins."

Rose and I give each other a side glance, in place of either one of us rolling our eyes, I'm sure. As if we needed another reminder that we're total freaks.

"Anyway," Porter continues. "Enough of me nerding out on you guys. The point of this session is to talk about what Dr. Kline and I have determined as far as where to go from here."

All along the couch, nobody moves or breathes as we await the prognosis.

"Now, I must preface this by reminding you all that the decision falls into the hands of your parents. Or, in this case, you." he gesturers to mom.

Yes, to the surprise of absolutely no one, Dad has outright refused to attend a single family session. He has always referred to anything therapy-related as "psychobabble", and believes mental health centers are "a waste of taxpayers' money."

Interestingly, he hasn't said a thing about Mom supporting us, though. Not since that first night, when she finally stood up to him.

"But anyway," he continues (finally!), then hands Mom two formal-looking pieces of paper. "These are referrals for both the twins to be brought to an Endocrinologist who specializes in working with trans kids. He's down in Mobile-"

"Mobile?" Mom spits back in disbelief, apparently no longer able to hide her emotions. "That's....that's almost four hours away!"

Dr. Porter puts up his hands in an exaggerated motion, looking very similar to the popular shrugging emoji. "Again, it's up to you," he responds. "It's only your kids' mental health, after all."

Mom presses her lips into a thin line, then sighs deeply. "Alright," she responds, finally. "So what next?"

I turn again to look at Rose and she is staring back at me with wide eyes, full of disbelief. Our thoughts are probably very similar once more. Is this real? Is this really happening??

Dr. Porter is continuing on, and I turn my full attention back to him. I want to know what's next, probably more than my mom does.

"At the endocrine clinic," he's saying. "Sam and Rose will go through yet another evaluation to earn yet another referral. I know," he says, looking directly at me. He must be able to read something in my expression. "It's all a bunch of bullshit, isn't it Sam?"

Mom raises her eyebrows at that, but I break out into a wide grin. Because, as much crap as I give Dr. Porter for trying to make me talk about my emotions, I really do love the guy.

"Anyway, with that referral," he continues. "Along with my referral, and one from their primary care doctor-"

"We've seen her already," I say excitedly. I don't mention how we had to change doctors three times before we found one who was alright with seeing transgender kids.

Dr. Porter nods. "Very good. Then after this evaluation....well, the kids will be good to start on puberty blockers. And that," he says to Mom pointedly. "Can be done in Birmingham."

Rose gasps so loud it comes out as something close to a shriek, and jumps to her feet. I do too, and in less than a second we are hugging.

"I can't believe it," Rose is saying in my ear, through tears. "I can't fucking believe it."

I can't help but laugh, remembering a time when Rose hardly ever cursed. Too much time spent around me and Dan Albright this past year probably changed that.

"Me neither, girl," I say, gripping her so tight it hurts my chest, but I don't care. "Its finally happening."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mom watching us, again with that neutral expression on her face. But I can tell by her eyes- so similar to ours- that she's hiding some more intense feelings.

I hope that seeing how happy Rose and I are through this whole transition will help her work through the doubts that I know she has been having, but I'm also trying not to expect too much. Even one of our parents agreeing to support us through transition is already a whole lot more than Rose and I ever thought to hope for. I guess it's fair that we allow her some time to deal with her own emotions about it.

"I'm very happy for you too," says Dr. Porter, and I can tell that he really is. "Now, this may not always be easy. There are quite a few medical and legal hoops to jump through, and I won't sugarcoat it; you kids have a long, challenging road ahead of you. But there is not a doubt in my mind that you'll make it." He ends his sentence with a genuine smile.

Meanwhile, I cannot stop hugging Rose.

"We did it," I'm saying, and now even I'm crying. Miraculously, through all of the bullshit and the trauma, and the dark sea of hopelessness we lived in for so long, we have made it to the beginning of better days.

At long last, we are here.

------------

Rose

As April gives way to May with a series of soft thunderstorms that finally bring all of the colors of Mountain Brook back from the dead, I realize that life at school since the four of us returned from our "recovery week" has been a breeze. Possibly for the first time in our entire lives.

I say the four of us because Lucas was excused from school for the rest of the year to allow him time to recover from, you know, being shot and all. But it's okay, because as long as he does his schoolwork from home he won't have to worry about getting held back.

I eagerly volunteered to be the one who retrieves his assignments from the office and delivers them to his house, where I always spend at least an hour helping him with his math and science. Sam and Cody come over with me at least once a week to help him with English and history, and Dan....well, he sort on just hangs around.

Another thing we were sure to do for Lucas his first week home from the hospital was catch him up on the aftermath of everything that happened to us, which he was very eager to hear about.

We found out through the grapevine that there was an assembly on the Monday following the spring dance. It was led by Officer Bentley, and focused primarily on the outcomes of bullying and harassment. Students were informed that Andy Thompson had shot himself (it's not like they weren't going to find out anyway), and were told that he had been on the run due to a "heinous crime" he had committed towards a fellow student (details of said crime were not revealed).

Bentley also went on to reveal that the other students who had participated in said crime were in police custody and awaiting life-altering consequences for their actions. I can only assume that Edgar ended up ratting out every single one of them.

Sure enough, it was apparent during our first week back that many of the bullies we had come to know over the past several years, including Edgar Thompson and Warren Hawk, were here no longer. And the ones who were still here, and who likely knew about what Andy had done, gave Sam and me a wide berth.

It felt as if we had finally broken out of Hell, after so many years.

The week after that first assembly there was another one, and though this one was more routine and had nothing to do with the Thompsons, it was almost equally as dramatic.

This assembly was to announce the winners of student council for next year. And though it was a very close race for the senior class president, Alecia Kincaid ended up winning.

Alecia stepped up to the podium wearing a rainbow sash covered with some of the LGBT-supportive buttons she has been so fond of handing out over the past several months. She gave a whole speech on how she would work hard next year to make this school a safe place for everyone, which of course earned several raised eyebrows and head shakes throughout the crowd.

Sam, Dan, and Cody next to me were all staring up at her in absolute bafflement, but I could only smile. I probably clapped louder that anyone at the end of her speech.

-----

Though I love all of my friends dearly and enjoy spending time with them, these days I mostly eat lunch in Miss Vaughn's room. They understand completely, as I've told them all how important of a role model she is to me (though of course, I've never told them why).

I told Miss Vaughn everything on my first day back at school, when she approached me with worried eyes at the end of class and asked if I was doing okay. I responded "Better than ever," and then met her for lunch that day and told her everything.

I told her what happened to me last fall (which, as I've been in therapy, is slowly getting easier to talk about). I told her about my shut downs, finally helping her understand why I had those long stretches of silence when I couldn't speak, let alone do any art work. I told her about Cody and Lucas, Sam and Dan, and I told her about everything that went down at the park during the dance.

"Well I'm guessing that was the last school dance you'll ever go to," she said to me at one point.

"No kidding," I responded.

Eventually we grew past talking about my trauma and experiences, and I just came to her room during lunch to hang out and draw with her. And to talk to her about trans stuff.

Today, the first thing I tell her when I arrive is that Sam and I are starting puberty blockers.

"Congratulations!" She says excitedly, and she hugs me. We've gotten to that point too, Miss Vaughn and I. She told me once that I'm like the child she knows she'll never have, beaming at me despite the inherent sadness behind the statement.

"It's still hard to believe that it's actually happening, honestly," I tell her, sitting across from her at her desk with my knees up and my sketchpad resting on top of them. I'm adding shading to a rose that I'm drawing (because no matter how much time passes and however I may change, I will always go back to roses).

"I felt the same way when I started my transition," she's telling me as she takes a bite of her salad. "It really does feel surreal, doesn't it?"

"It does," I agree, my eyes still locked firmly on my rose. It's the first time I've drawn one that is fully bloomed in awhile, and it's proving to be a challenge. "But more than that. It feels almost unreal. Like, I spent so much of my life believing that this would never happen. And now that it has....I still find myself thinking that life is going to find a way to rip this happiness away from me. I'm almost waiting for it."

"Rose," Miss Vaughn says, and I look up to see that her eyes are sad. "I see how you can feel that way, given the life you have had. But you have to know that happiness is possible, and that you deserve it. So you can let yourself feel it. It's okay." She ends her final sentence with a smile, like she always does, only this smile is special. This smile of hers, which lights up the entirety of her face, is reserved especially for me.

"By the way," she adds, tipping down the edge of my notebook so that she see my sketch. "It's beautiful."

I look down again at my rose, full and vibrant and, even though it is a pencil sketch- positively alive with color. You can just tell. It's petals appear 3D and seem to reach up towards me, and the scent of everything that is lovely in this world seems to come up from within the page.

"So beautiful," Miss Vaughn repeats.

And for the first time in my life, I respond, "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

------------

Lucas

So recovering from getting shot is weird.

On the one hand, people are extra nice to you. Mom hasn't snapped at me once since I got home, or made me do any chores. And my brother and sister, both whiny preteens who normally annoy the crap out of me, have been acting like my servants. And little Josie, my youngest sister, has always been sweet to me, so nothing really changed there.

But then there's the bad part of recovering from getting shot, which is that everything freaking hurts. Like, all the time.

"Lucas!" My mom calls up the stairs one day, when Rose is here of course. "Did you take your pain medication?!"

I groan loudly. "Yes Mom!" I yell back, even though it's a total lie. I did not, in fact, remember to take my pain medication. It's no wonder everything hurts right now.

"Here, is she talking about this one?" asks Rose, holding up one of the many orange bottles on my nightstand.

"Yeah," I groan, touching lightly over the bandage on my midsection as I sit up in bed. "Could ya hand it to me?"

She does, and also hands me the glass of water sitting next to my pills without me even having to ask. God bless this girl.

"So anyway," I say once I've swallowed the gross pills. "Where were we?"

"Biology final review," she reminds me sweetly. "Just finished up the taxonomy unit. You did great."

"Thanks," I groan. I probably won't stop groaning until the meds kick in.

Rose seems to sense that, because she sets down the packet she has been quizzing me from and clears all of the other notes off of my bed as well. "Let's take a break," she says.

"Agreed." I grin at her as she pulls her sketchbook out of her backpack and hands me my own.

"Thanks," I tell her as I take it. "What's the last thing you drew, by the way?" I blurt the question out randomly, and would cringe at myself if it wouldn't make my pain even worse.

But Rose doesn't seem bothered. She smiles. "I've actually been meaning to show you this for awhile," she tells me, flipping through her sketchbook until she finds it. Then she blushes and bites her lip. "Promise you won't think it's weird?"

My god she's adorable. And oblivious. "Baby, I'm the king of weird," I remind her with a wink. Using the term 'baby' ironically, of course. I honestly can't believe she would ever be worried of what I think of her. I mean, she's the socially functional one in this relationship. I'm just along for the ride.

She blushes again, and I smirk. Her damn blush. It's so easy to make her do, and yet I can't help but enjoy it every time. Without looking at me, she opens her sketchbook up to show me her latest drawing.

Suddenly, I'm no longer smirking. Now I'm the one blushing. Because I'm staring down at a picture of....me.

It takes me a hot second to realize that it's me, because the guy in the picture looks almost hot. He's sitting in grass with his back against a tree, legs stretched out in front of him with one knee up, and is looking out and smirking at something we can't see. One of his hands is entwined in his own shaggy hair, and honestly it's probably the hair that helps me figure out who I'm looking at.

"So what do you think?" she asks me, and I can tell just from her voice that she's anxious.

I look up at her through my lashes and give her a nervous smile. "Oh shit, it me," I say.

Rose rolls her eyes. "I'm serious," she says. "Is it....I mean, is it good?"

"Well, duh," I say, because that shouldn't even be a question. "I guess it just doesn't really seem like it's me, at first glance."

She looks a little crushed. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not that good looking," I laugh, hoping she doesn't think I'm knocking her art skills. "This guy looks like he's got a hundred friends and a band that plays out of his garage. Definitely not who I see in the mirror everyday."

She shrugs and looks down at the floor. "That's how I see you," she admits, almost under her breath.

Aw jeez, well there goes all the blood to my face again.

"Uh...er, I uh...eheh," I sputter nervously, pulling at my hair.

"See, right there!" she says, excitedly. "That thing you do with your hair. It's....cute. It's what made me want to draw this in the first place."

Plot twist, that "thing I do with my hair" is actually just a fidgety thing I do when I get nervous. But I don't tell her that. Instead, I figure it's time to take the spotlight off of me before my heart tries to escape my body through the hole in my torso.

"I have a drawing you might like," I blurt, fumbling with my own sketchbook to find it. "I mean, it isn't you. Well, not exactly. I mean, you inspired it. But also I thought of you a ton while I drew it. Anyway, uh....here." I finally slide my sketchbook over to her, and I want to look away so that I don't see her reaction, but I just can't tear my gaze away from her face.

The drawing is a rose; the first one I've ever drawn. Not counting the bajillion rough drafts of this exact sketch that were trashed because they just weren't good enough. Not for her.

The final draft was pretty good, I think, but it still could definitely be better. I ended up not being able to draw a whole-ass rose, like the ones you see in full-bloomed gardens, so I ended up drawing one in a pair of hands holding it. The hands are meant to hide the flaws that would have been there otherwise, but hopefully it doesn't come across that way.

"Whoa," she says, looking down at it. "You are really freaking good at drawing hands."

I blink. "I am?"

"Yeah. I mean, I love the rose, too. But the hands....they're amazing."

Funny how I didn't really think twice about the hands, except how they would hopefully distract from my less-than-stellar rose, but the hands turned out to be her favorite part.

"I like your drawing too, by the way," I feel inclined to say. "Love it, actually. Sorry I didn't say that before."

She smiles at me, and my heart does the thing where I feel like it's going to run away again. "Thanks. I love yours, too."

I chew on my lip, for once thinking of the words I'm about to say before just blurting them out, but I'm still unsure when I finally ask, "Wanna, uh....wanna trade?"

"Huh?"

"Drawings, I mean," I say. "Like, can I have yours? And you can keep mine. I mean, if you want. I was just-"

"Yeah," she cuts me off, giggling at my rambling. "I think that's a great idea.

We trade drawings then, and I take hers and slip it into the first drawer of my nightstand. I'll try to remember to look at it later tonight, maybe for hours in order to find out what the hell she sees in me that could even remotely resemble that boy.

"Want to get back to studying?" Rose asks, though I can sort of tell that she doesn't really want that.

"Nah," I say. "C'mere."

She curls up against my non-injured side then, and I wrap my arm around her tightly. I feel her fingers caressing through my hair, and I can't contain the smile that joins the heat in my face.

"I love that," I admit to her before I can stop myself.

So she keeps doing it, and before long I can feel myself drifting off to sleep. It could very well be the pain meds, or the warm body next to me. All I know for sure is the very last thought that makes it's way through my hazy brain.

I want this moment to last forever.

------------

Cody

It's lunchtime on the first day of finals' week, and John Walker is staring at me.

Now anyone less observant than me (and I'm pretty damn observant) probably wouldn't notice it. My friends sure as hell don't notice. I don't think John himself even notices half the time.

The first time I felt his burning gaze on me since the night of the spring dance was during the assembly two weeks afterwards, when they announced the student council representatives for next year. Which was ironic, because his girlfriend was on stage the moment I caught him staring.

I remember how I felt this heat on the side of my face, like a very subtle laser beam, and I turned my head to find his eyes on me halfway across the auditorium. He looked away immediately, his expression as pissed as I've ever seen it.

Since then, I've caught him a few more times. Usually during lunch, but sometimes before school in that spot where he and all of his friends like to hang out. The same spot where we first met him, and he called Rose gay for wearing a bra. I told him to mind his business, and he threatened to kick my ass. Good times.

Fast forward to now, four months later, and John Walker is staring at me with an intensity that is as satisfying as it is unnerving. I won't lie, it's a little enjoyable to know that he has been as wrecked by that fucking kiss as I have. Maybe he also dreams about it, and wakes up in a cold sweat wondering if it was actually a dream or a nightmare.

The kiss was over a month ago at this point (six weeks and three days, to be exact) and I can't get it off of my mind. Neither can he, apparently. And yes, that is definitely a very good feeling.

"CODY!"

I sit up in my seat, suddenly very alert. "What?"

Rose, who had shouted at me, looks behind her curiously. She's looking at the vending machines though, which I had shifted my eyes to look at as soon as John turned my way, so that he wouldn't know I was staring too.

"What were you looking at?" Rose asks.

"Just spacing out, sorry. What were we talking about?" I take a large bite of my food then, which is always a great way to conceal the fact that you just lied to someone's face. I should know.

"Just finals," says Sam. "What do you have next?"

I actually have to think about it. "Uh, English. But I already took it."

Rose gawks at me. "How could you have already taken the final??"

I shrug. "I was ahead on my other work a couple weeks ago, so I asked Mrs. Carter if I could and she said yes. It's just an essay. You'll do fine."

Rose is still shaking her head while Sam says something about how insanely smart I am, and Dan jokes about me being a nerd. Same old, same old. Point is, I have the next ninety minutes to myself, and I have to figure out what to do with them.

I look up again at the table near the windows. John shifts his gaze immediately, laughing at whatever bullshit his friend just said. But underneath it all, he's still pissed. I can tell.

And I'm so damn happy about it.

------------

John

Look at him smirking over there. Fuckin prick. My hand tightens around my near-empty can of Red Bull as I lock my eyes down for the millionth time.

"Yo Johnny," says Trey as he flings a carrot at me. "Whatcha got after this?"

"Huh?"

"Finals, dumbass." Trey says smacking the white snapback off my head, the one he gave me in the sixth fuckin grade. "Where's your head today, man?"

I pick up my cap and hit him with it, and the others crack up. "I dunno what I got. Some dumb shit, probably," I say instead of telling him how I failed damn near all my classes this semester, so most of my teachers didn't bother with having me take finals. Not when I already got all that summer school to look forward to.

Nah, I don't need to say that shit in front of the guys. I'll tell Trey later, for sure, but Mick and Devon don't need to know that I actually am a dumbass. Andre already knows, I think. We had pre-algebra together (which, when you're a junior, basically means you're a dumbass).

The bell's gonna ring soon, and my eyes keep wanting to go up and look where they shouldn't. It's like a goddamn reflex at this point. I need to get outta here.

"I gotta take a piss," I tell the guys, sliding my tray across the table so one of them can dump it. "Catch ya'll later."

I turn my cap forwards and tip it over my eyes on my way to the bathroom, and some bitch teacher yells at me for running and demands that I take my cap off. I ignore her.

I lock myself in the bathroom near the faculty lounge, which students are not supposed to be in, but it's the only one in school that is just a single bathroom without stalls. I lock the door.

I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are red- not from weed, which I haven't smoked in ages, but from lack of sleep. I lean down in front of the sink and splash my face in water, something I seem to have psyched myself into believing works to cure me of insanity.

But it never works. I'm still fuckin crazy.

Sliding down to the bathroom floor, I think back to the night after all that shit went down, when I woke up at 3am with the fuckin Glock still in my hand. I threw it against the wall. Mom still didn't wake up.

I ended up taking my mom's shitty car to see Alecia, time of night be damned. Had to call her four times before she finally came to her window, but once she did and let me into her bedroom, I kissed her. Hard. Hoping to god that kissing my girlfriend would erase the memories of the last person I kissed.

Of course, it wasn't enough. We kissed and touched and kissed some more, but it wasn't fuckin enough. Her enthusiasm was greater than mine, even, and it was actually her idea to go out to the car and fuck so that her parents wouldn't hear us.

We did, and it was some of the roughest and most intense sex I think we've ever had. I still wonder if she could sense the urgency in me, still wonder if she had any idea that the whole thing was meant more for me than for her, because I still had those fuckin memories in my head of lips that weren't hers, and I needed to get them out.

She was satisfied in the end. I was not.

And now, sitting and shaking on the grimy floor of the school faculty bathroom, I feel the same goddamn level of crazy as I did all those fuckin weeks ago. Crazy because I kissed a fuckin boy, and don't even know WHY.

And not just any boy. No, it had to be Cody Foster.

That's his real name, as much as I wish I could forget it. Not faggot, or pussy, or Four-Eyes, or any other shit that I called him to make him seem like less of a real person. Nope. Cody Foster.

And I can't get him out of my head.

Him and his beat-up face, bleeding from my fists- like so many others before him. Only none of the others cried like he did, or said the shit that he said. None of the others made me feel for them like I felt for him that night. Fuckin felt for him! Just cause he happened to turn out these words that I felt like were pulled directly from my skull and spat back in my face.

And the way the fucker cried. Not like a wuss who wanted me to stop, but like a wounded animal crying out to be shot and put out of its misery.

And I could've done it. I could've wailed on him until he passed out, then walked away and avoided this whole fuckin mess. And I might've, if it wasn't for the way he looked at me.

"Fuck!" I half-shout, half-whisper in this too-small bathroom. I need to leave. I need to go hit something, or someone. Anything to make myself stop thinking.

Deciding I've had enough of this self-pity bullshit, I stand up from the floor at last. I stretch out my back, sore from leaning on the hard tile wall, and open the door.

And Cody Foster is staring at me.

------------

Cody

Following John Walker wasn't exactly how I planned to spend my ninety minutes, but somehow it turned out that way. Funny how things work out, huh?

Okay, I'll admit it; the moment he ditched his friends and practically bolted from the cafeteria , shoulders tense and eyes cast downward, was the moment when I decided that I was done with this. If he was at the point where he couldn't even be around his friends, finally giving me the opportunity to catch him alone, we were going to talk. Now.

"I need to run to the bathroom real quick," I tell my own friends, moving what was probably way too fast as I dumped my tray in the trashcan nearest to our table. "See you guys after school."

Luckily, they didn't seem to notice my hastiness. Or maybe they did, but I didn't notice. I was too busy making a beeline towards the very direction John had headed.

Turning down the hallway of miscellaneous classrooms off from the lunch area, I spotted John just as he was shutting himself in a room all the way down the hall. I followed, only to find that he hadn't gone into a room at all, but a bathroom. The one right next to the faculty lounge, which I'm guessing we're not allowed to be in. Figures.

Whatever, I can wait. I'll let him have whatever breakdown I'm sure he's having in there, and then he's going to open the door eventually, and we are going to talk. I don't care what it takes, or how much he tries to avoid it, or if he kicks the shit out of me because of it (I'm almost sure that he will). I don't care. I am so sick of living in this cloud of uncertainty.

Besides, if this asshole is going to kiss me out of nowhere and then run away, the very least he owes me is an explanation. I mean, by anyone's standards, that was just rude.

Finally, after several agonizing minutes, I hear the door's lock click. I make sure I'm standing right in front of the door as he opens it.

The wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression on John's face when he sees me is downright comical, and I would bust out laughing right now if my heart didn't feel like it was stuck in a pressure chamber.

I feel like I'm about to puke, but I can't show it. Keeping my face as smooth as I've practiced over the past year-and-a-half, I say to him, "We need to talk."

John's shocked face twists into a scowl. "The fuck we do," he snarls, then tries to push past me.

I block him, shoving him back so hard that he falls backward through the doorway and into the bathroom. Perfect.

Before he can so much as stand up, I'm in the bathroom with him and locking the door behind us. He is trapped.

And he fucking knows it; even as he leaps to his feet and gets right up in my face, I can see the terror in his eyes.

"Let me out, Foster," he demands.

"No," I tell him. "Not until we-"

But he punches me in the gut, causing me to double over. I was ready for this, however, and my hand is still latched tightly to the doorknob. He tries to pry it away, but my willpower is ten times stronger than his desperation. I cannot be moved.

"Fuck!" he yells, turning away from me and grabbing at his hair in frustration. His plain white hat that I see him wearing every now and then is lying on the floor by his feet. "Why the hell are you keeping me in here, you crazy fuckin fa-"

"Don't!" I cut him off, furiously. And I am furious. My first real emotion in six weeks and three days, and it is overwhelming. "Don't even say it."

He doesn't, but he does shoot me a death glare in place of the word.

I cut right to the chase, and my voice drips with venom as I finally ask the question that has been plaguing me all this time. "Why did you kiss me?"

Again, the terror clouds over John's face and his eyes shimmer with it, but only for a few seconds. Then his normal scowl falls back into place, and he looks once again like the guy I met back in January. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The laughter practically explodes out of me, and it's a cruel noise. Denial, how fucking cliché.

"Really?" I spit, still laughing at him. "You're going to gaslight me now? That's the route you're going?"

"What?!" He sputters. "I'm not....what?!"

"You kissed me," I repeat, relishing in how he flinches. "And I want to know why. And you are NOT going to stand there and pretend like it didn't happen when we BOTH know the truth."

He runs his hands over his face, as if in an effort to wipe off any emotion. If that was his goal, he fails tremendously. He looks more scared now than ever before. "Let me out," he says.

"No," I repeat.

John inhales a sharp, if shaky breath, and aims his fist higher than my stomach this time.

"Hit me all you want," I say, before he can throw the punch. "Hell, beat me up until I pass out, because that's the only way you're going to get out of here without talking to me." I swear at myself internally. I shouldn't have given him that idea.

But instead of doing just as I suggested, John's fist drops back to his side. He's looking at me still, but his eyes are different. So much closer to the eyes of the boy who cradled my face before kissing me as I sobbed in the grass, and I almost gasp at the sight of them.

"Why do you gotta say shit like that?" John suddenly asks, and his voice is....normal. Not like the vicious growl I'm used to, that relentless tone that threatened my friends and called me faggot. This voice was closer to the one that whispered It's okay to me in the dark, soothing me through my breakdown.

My stomach feels like it's flying.

"Shit like what?" I ask, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

"Like you wanna die," John elaborates.

I gulp, and my throat is so dry that it hurts. Because I do, is what I don't say. I wish I could make myself say it, if that's what it will take to make John soften his hyper masculinity a tad and just fucking talk for once, but I don't. I can't.

"Why did you kiss me?" I repeat instead.

And just like that, John Walker is back to his regular scheduled programming. Any shred of kindness falls from his face as his natural scowl resumes its position, but admittedly, the transition looks almost painful.

Still, he does not relent as he grabs me roughly by the front of my collared shirt and slams me back into the very door I'm guarding. "I didn't.....fuckin.....kiss you," he spits the last two words like they're a spoonful of Ajax, disgusting and poisonous all at the same time. And his face is so close to mine that I can feel the heat of his breath, and I'm sure if I inhale too deeply I'll get second-hand smoke.

But what's a little cancer when you're already suicidal, right?

With a sudden burst of fearlessness, I lean forward and kiss John Walker full on the mouth.

He gasps, relinquishing my shirt collar in shock, but does not pull back. Not even a little. Just the opposite, actually.

John pulls me away from the door just to slam me against the wall by the sink, grabs my face with both hands, and deepens the kiss. My own hands wander to the back of his loose, white t-shirt and dip down towards the hem. They seem to have a mind of their very own as they slip underneath his shirt, touching the warm skin of John's back.

All bets are off at this point, a part of me realizes. It's as if this impossibly bold, almost manic part of me that decided to kiss John Walker here in the faculty bathroom has opened a floodgate, and there is absolutely no going back. The flood rushing out is the force of the goddamn Mediterranean Sea, waves are crashing over homes and killing civilians, and it cannot be stopped. Might as well start swimming at this point.

John responds to my wandering hands by one-upping me, prying his mouth away from mine just to pull my shirt over my head completely. In doing so, he knocks my brand-new glasses off my face and I think I hear something shatter. I don't care.

He takes off his own shirt before I can return the favor, and then his lips are right back at it.

They're harsh and unrelenting, his lips, much like John himself. The ashy taste is there, but it's fucking delicious, and I drink in the cancer eagerly. Before I can have my fill, the lips are moving down to my neck and collarbone, and only now that my mouth is free do I realize how loud I am gasping.

Smart Cody who somehow still exists somewhere under all of this ocean and rubble is saying, Quiet down, idiot! You're still at school. You're going to get caught.

But Horny Cody doesn't give a shit, because he's in charge now, and Smart Cody can go fuck himself because honestly, what does he really know anyway?

"Is this okay?" John is saying in my ear, and I notice then that his hand is on my belt buckle. His voice is soft again, once again taking me back to that first night, that first kiss. This version of John seems to give a shit about consent, too, and if anything that only thrills me more.

I can only nod eagerly as a signal for him to continue, and he does. Oh fuck, does he. His hands are on me and mine on him, and I wish I could see his face and read how he's feeling, or even how I'm feeling, and I wish I gave a single fuck how this all could possibly turn out.

But I don't. My eyes are closed, and I have surrendered myself to the roaring, storming sea.

-----------

John

I am so utterly and completely fucking fucked.

**************************************************************************************

EPILOGUE: A PROMISE

May 30th, 2017

THE HELL SURVIVORS

LUCAS: Ayyy I like the name change.

SAM: Thanks, I thought it was pretty accurate.

DAN: Sounds badass.

ROSE: OH MY GOD YOU GUYS GUESS WHAT

SAM: Uhhh I'm guessing this is where we say what?

ROSE: THE MAIL CAME TODAY

DAN: Very nice. You know, I hear it does that six days a week.

ROSE: Ok I deserved that, but my point is what came IN the mail.

SAM: I already got my check, what else are we waiting on?

ROSE: GUYS I GOT A LETTER FROM ROSE PARKER. SHE WROTE ME BACK!!!!

LUCAS: Oh shit, that's neat!

SAM: Hmmm not sure how I feel about that.

ROSE: Oh shut your face, she's my best friend!

DAN: I take offense to that.

SAM: So Rose, I take it you're not coming over to Dan's then?

ROSE: No way, I have to write her back right away!! You guys enjoy making out or whatever, I'll see you later.

SAM: K thanks, bye XD

***********

Dan

So with Rose excitedly writing back her sociopathic best friend, Lucas visiting his grandparents, and Cody hiding out god-knows-where, it looks like it'll just be me and Sam for my last day here at Mountain Brook.

Not last day forever, obviously. (Then I'd be super pissed that no one else showed up to say goodbye). It's just my last day for the summer, before Gab and I fly out to be with my family for the next two months.

It's pretty nice out today, especially for it being almost June. Warm, but not yet unbearably humid, and a nice breeze to accompany the cloudless sky. And with just the two of us here to celebrate my temporary last day, Sam and I elect to spend it on the front steps outside of my house, eating popsicles and enjoying the weather.

"Do you really have to go?" Sam asks me with a heavy sigh, leaning his head against my shoulder.

I run my fingers through his hair with the hand not holding my popsicle. "Yeah, I kinda owe it to David." David, who has called me every single week without fail since that fateful day in March, if only to remind me that he cares about me and is there if I ever need to talk. Though I struggled to admit it for awhile, it wasn't long at all before I started looking forward to these calls. It honestly feels nice to have a real big brother in a family where I have always felt so alone.

Sam pouts. "For two months though? That's a long time."

I know it is, I think, but I don't say that. Instead I roll my eyes and shove him away from me. "Oh quit being so needy. You'll survive."

"Will I though?" he responds playfully, putting his head back on my shoulder.

I shove him away from me again, this time almost knocking him off the stairs and into the bushes. He ends up dropping his popsicle. "Hey!" he shouts indignantly.

I'm about to apologize, because I didn't mean to shove him that hard, but he retaliates by taking my popsicle out of my hand and throwing it across the yard.

"You asshole!" I yell, standing up. "That was the last red one."

He stands too, shoving me hard. "You're about to be the last red one if you don't get me another popsicle."

"You owe me another one first, you fucker!" I shoot back, shoving him so hard that he actually does land in the bushes this time

"That's it!" he cries, getting up fast, and I only catch the slightest hint of a smile that breaks through his act before he starts to chase me around my yard.

I let out a dramatic, high-pitched scream as I run from him.

"Get back here, you twat waffle!" Sam shouts after me, and I can hardly contain a laugh at that one.

He chases me relentlessly for several minutes, yelling out the most ridiculous combination of curse words that make me laugh, causing me to lose stamina quicker. I finally have to stop, kneeling down to catch my breath, which gives Sam the perfect opportunity to jump up on my back like a koala. We both shriek as his added weight sends us both tumbling to the ground.

By now, we are are rolling on the grass in fits of cackling laughter, still cursing at each other. It's just a game, of course. It always was.

"You're such a bitch sneeze," I manage to breathe out through my cackling.

"You're a fuck biscuit!" says Sam, still laughing just as hard.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Gabby poking her head out the front doors, probably worried by all of the screaming. When she sees that it's just me and Sam dicking around again, she only shakes her head as she goes back inside.

"Oh man," says Sam as his laughter dies down, wiping the tears from his eyes. He rolls over on the grass until he's laying on top of my chest. "I love you so much."

"Love you too." I give him a quick kiss, then smack his shoulder. "Now go get me another popsicle, dickweed."

Sam sticks his tongue out at me, but is standing up to do just that when he halts in place. "Oh shit," he remarks, ducking his head. "Your neighbors probably think we're crazy."

"What neighbors?" I snort. This street is almost entirely occupied by the vacation homes of rich people, which means that most of the houses surrounding mine are empty. It's what I've always loved about living here.

"The new neighbors," Sam replies, pointing across the street.

As I sit up I am simultaneously horrified and curious to see that, sure enough, there is a large moving van parked in front of the luxury home diagonal from mine. Multiple people are milling about it, unloading boxes and rolling out trollies of large furniture. I'm honestly surprised I didn't notice it before.

"Yeesh," I mutter. "Guess we actually have to act like normal people at my place now."

"Pfft, as if that's going to happen," Sam chuckles, pinching my side playfully. "Let's go inside though. Don't want those people trying to come over here and make friends."

Nodding in agreement, I follow Sam into my house. I spare only one more glance back at the newcomers across the street, and think I spy someone sporting what looks to be like a head of shocking blue hair. Can't tell from here though, it could very well be a wig.

I shut the doors behind me without another thought of the new neighbors.

-----

As Sam and I eat our fresh popsicles at the counter in the kitchen ("Behave, you two," Gabby orders us when she sees that we're inside now) I think of a question that I'm surprised I haven't asked him yet.

"Oh yeah, so how was your first, uh...." I start, suddenly feeling like an asshole when I can't remember the name of the injection that my boyfriend will now be receiving on a monthly basis. "Your uh....the-"

"The injection?" Sam finishes for me, smiling patiently. "It's fine, babe. I can hardly remember the name either. It's like, Lepo-Something. But anyway, the injection went fine. Hurt like hell though. Rosie cried. We both know we have to get used to it though."

"So you'll be on it for, like, the rest of your life?" I ask him curiously, hoping I'm not being too invasive. I've always shied away from asking Sam about trans-related stuff, worried that my clear ignorance on the subject would show. It's also fairly easy to avoid the subject, Sam is just so obviously a boy to me that I hardly even think about him being trans.

"It will be different for Rose and me," he's explaining now. "Because these are just puberty blockers, not actual hormones. Those will come later. Rose is lucky, because the stuff she needs comes in a pill form. I'll keep getting shots when I start on T, but you know," he shrugs dismissively. "It's worth it."

"Yeah," I nod in understanding, even though I obviously don't understand. I do wonder if this is a good opportunity to bring up the gift that I've been wanting to give him, though.

When we're silent for a few moments, with Sam just sucking on his popsicle (occasionally winking at me as he does so) I decide that now is as good a time as any.

"I need to go grab something," I announce, kind of abruptly. "I'll be right back."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Whoa, okay okay. I'll quit sucking on the popsicle. Didn't know you were that easily riled up."

"What? No! It's not-" I sputter, but Sam is laughing.

"I'm kidding. Go get whatever you need."

I take off up the stairs quickly so he doesn't see my flushed face, and take my time retrieving the box I've been hiding under my bed for going on two months now.

When I return to the kitchen with it, Sam tilts his head. "What's that?"

"It's for you," I tell him, setting it on the counter awkwardly.

"Aw, Dan. You know my birthday isn't until August, right?"

"Of course I know that," I chuckle. "It's not really a birthday present. I bought it a couple months ago, but wasn't sure when to give it to you. What with your chest being hurt and all...." I trail off as Sam gives me a suspicious look along with his smile. I think he might know where I'm going with this.

"Just open it!" I encourage him.

Still looking at me with a big smile (the one that still, to this day, makes my heart flutter like crazy) he takes the lid of the plain white box, and moves around the tissue paper to view what's inside.

His eyes widen, and he looks back up at me. "No way."

I laugh. "Yes way. I hope it, uh....like, fits and everything. I just guessed on the size," I rub the back of my neck, still feeling awkward about the whole thing. I keep worrying that Sam's going to tell me at some point that I need to quit talking about trans stuff, like I'm somehow going to cross some invisible boundary I didn't know existed. "You should probably go try it on," I suggest.

He jumps at it, running to the bathroom down the hall with the chest binder in hand.

While he's gone, I take some deep breaths. I'm not sure why I'm panicking so much today. It might have something to do with all of the huge changes happening in Sam's life right now- puberty blockers, pretty soon to be hormones, injected into his body monthly. And with my dumb, ignorant ass as his boyfriend.

I worry that these changes will be hard for him, and that I won't be able to support him like he needs. Maybe a part of me even worries that he will change as his body changes, and that he'll lose interest in me. Because honestly, why wouldn't he? It's not like there aren't way better guys out there, or girls, if that's what he decides he's interested in. Why the hell would he want to stay with an enormous fuckup like me, with a transphobic past and all sorts of self-destructive tendencies. Why would he-

"How do I look?"

I do a one-eighty and try to make my face look like I wasn't just on the verge of a panic attack.

I'm a little startled, honestly, because as Sam stands there in the same baggy, navy blue t-shirt that he has been wearing all day, holding out his arms as if to show me something.....I see no difference. I mean, not really. I guess I've never paid much attention to his chest, honestly.

"What is it?" Sam asks, now looking worried.

I bite my lip. Will I hurt his feelings by telling him that I see no difference, that he looks exactly like the Sam I have always know and loved, just with a slightly flatter chest? This is exactly the type of shit I'm always worried about when it comes to trans stuff. I just never know the right thing to say....

"Dan?" Sam prompts me again. "What is it?" He's crossing his arms over his chest now, self-consciously.

I decide right then and there that honesty is the best route here, and I sigh. "I'm sorry," I say with a shrug. "But I really don't see that much of a difference. You're just.....Sam." I flinch a little then, prepared for any range of responses.

But the one I did not expect is Sam throwing his arms around me, hugging me so tight it's like he's desperate and scared to let go. And I won't lie, I can kind of feel the difference now. Only because his hug is tighter, and I realize now that he may have always felt dysphoria when his chest pressed up against mine.

Now against me fully, I can feel him crying.

"Sam?" I say worryingly.

"I just," he breathes into my ear. "You're just....so perfect."

I snort, pulling back from him so that I can wipe the tears from his eyes. "Please. I'm far from that. I mean-"

"Daniel Albright, you are objectively the best thing that has ever happened to me," he says with such a fierce confidence that I'm shocked into shutting up. "You save my life every day, it feels like. You are unquestioningly supportive to me and my sister, and you have loved me through everything. And when you say things like that....as if you don't even think about the fact that I'm trans....it just lights me up every time."

I laugh softly at how emotional he is getting, trying to hide the fact that I'm emotional too. It's as if Sam was reading my mind earlier, when all of my worst insecurities about our relationship were spinning around in my head. "Of course, Sammy boy," I tell him, pulling him back to me. "I love you."

"Love you too, Danny boy."

We stand there like that for awhile, just reveling in the warmth and comfort of each other, I think.

When we finally step apart, I put a gentle hand under Sam's chin so that he looks up and meets my eyes. "Hey," I say softly. "So my flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning. Want to spend the night? I've still got loads of TV shows to make you binge watch with me."

Sam smiles at that. "Yeah. I'd like that."

I kiss him lightly on the cheek. "Alright."

He bites his lip to hold back a laugh, and I can already feel the inevitable pun coming. "Albright," he says.

I roll my eyes. "Will that ever end?"

"No."

"Great," I groan sarcastically, but secretly I love it. I don't want it to end. I don't want a single, damn part of this to end. Not one bit of this amazing relationship that I have miraculously found for myself, with this amazing boy.

And I swear to myself in this moment that I will never, ever let myself lose this. That Sam Wyatt will be the man I marry, that I will hold him close to me and support him through everything, and that I will never let him go.

Not ever.