Beta Reader: @staroflightning (thank you, you’re the best)!

Warnings: Swearing/strong language, homophobia, mentioned transphobia, misgendering (unintentional), use of dead name (unintentional), and dismissal of mental illness.
___
Getting up late in the morning has its advantages, acquiring more sleep being one of the best. But staying in bed also offers other benefits such as comfortable solitude, a delay in duties to function like a regular human (according to society's definition of normal, anyway), and snuggling in the soft protection of the covers.

However, staying in bed also gives people such as Virgil less time to eat breakfast or prepare lunch, which is how at 8:24AM, an English bachelor student dressed in baggy sweatpants and a graphic tee trips over his own untied sneaker in his kitchen whilst on the hunt for lunch, one his mother had promised to make him the night before. He had been exhausted after a day of discovering himself and hating certain lecturers and had made an offhand comment about it, resulting in a kiss on the forehead and a promise from his mother to make him some lunch. She said it likely wouldn't be much, just a sandwich and whatever else she could find in their kitchen, but he was more than happy with even a simple ham sandwich.

And you know what? Despite every past experience and ounce of common sense telling him not to get his hopes up, he had, because his mother truly does mean well. Anyway. He heads off to the bus stop without breakfast or said lunch, hoping the weight in his stomach would ease up if he tells himself enough that he should've known.

Luckily, he manages to miss his father this morning, dodging his study and rushing out the door before he'd realise his son had even left the house.

Daughter. He doesn't know yet. Does that make Virgil his son any less?

He decides not to conjure up an answer to that question quite yet, instead boarding the bus and allowing his eyes to wander a bit, flickering over each hollow stranger before focusing on the young man sitting and tapping away at his phone in front of him. Must only be around fifteen and yet, he still reminds Virgil of himself. Dark clothing, a red beanie (though, personally, Virgil would have gone for grey, purple, or black) and terribly dyed hair — he definitely did it himself. But Virgil certainly isn't judging, merely reminiscing on his style when he was in high school and how Roman had constantly teased him for it (in the nicest way possible), and then the thought of his best friend throws his heart into his stomach. How is he going to tell him?

How much is it going to hurt being misgendered by his best friend, the one person in the entire world he feels like he can trust? If only he could shove these thoughts into the back of his mind, but anxiety is truly like a broken record, replaying the same scenes and questions over and over again in his mind. Scenes of rejection and disgust and perhaps even betrayal. Questions of confusion and again, disgust, along with a few questions of his own. Why does it matter what his father or mother think? Or what Roman thinks?

Maybe it matters because, well, what else does he have after them?

Like the situation with his parents, Virgil believes that telling Roman once he's financially independent and out of his parents' house will be the best and safest time to do so. What if he told Virgil's parents before he could stop him? Unlikely, since the three of them barely know each other and Roman despises them, but still possible.

He's just going to wait it out.

___

___

As his second lecturer of the day rambles on about a personal anecdote that is perhaps partially relevant to the subject of his class, Virgil scribbles an idea for a story plot in the back of his notebook, not attempting to make his handwriting very neat; he has a special notebook for novel ideas and research, so he'll be tearing out this back page of his university notebook as soon as he gets home and rewriting the idea in his pretty leather writing notebook.

Honestly, it's probably strange to daydream about the texture of a piece of stationary, but Virgil's novel-planning notebook owns his entire heart and, no matter how many pretty stylistic notebooks he finds whilst browsing several libraries and stationary stores, he will never discover one as aesthetically pleasing as the notebook he bought three years ago with the last of his monthly allowance. He traces the pad of his slender index finger across the clean wooden desk in front of him, remembering the rough texture of his faux leather notebook. Explosions of violet and cobalt through a scaled ocean of black remind him of several abandoned ideas; stories of a bold knight rescuing a seemingly beastly dragon from a secretly manipulative princess, the God of Death's perspective on several tragedies that had shaken the Earth without the need for clashing tectonic plates, a girl with a popular male name meeting a boy with a popular female name (that's as far as he'd gotten with that idea), and even a story based around the theory of life being a simulation. But he'd never really rolled with those ideas for long. The struggle of an aspiring writer is an overactive imagination.

Which, to be honest, could explain more than just the toppling of novel ideas.

One idea, however, continues to pester him and claw at his insides, as if it had dissolved into his bones. This is very unusual.

Even when he has been passionate about a story idea, he's always gotten sick of thinking about it and left it out to dry for a while. If you think about something for too long, it can really get to you. This should be obvious, but Virgil had thought that was only relevant to negative or intrusive thoughts. Not something he truly adored.

Speaking of relevance, Virgil pulls himself out of his thoughts and finds that his lecturer is still going on about... Was it about his hamster? Virgil can't even remember anymore. Why would he want to? He's always been slightly bitter over the topic of adopting an animal, as his parents have never really taken his interest in adopting a therapy animal seriously. Why would they want to? That would mean admitting their child possibly has a mental illness. And, of course, they aren't real. It's all in his head.

He loves his parents (more-or-less), but they are absolute fucking morons.

More his father than his mother, but he doesn't enjoy thinking about that too much, so he usually just leaves it at that. But maybe he should start thinking about it more? Maybe figuring it out would ease some of the tension between them?

Probably not, but it's worth a try.

"The criteria of your assignment due in..." his lecturers voice finally drills through images of disappointment and resentment, informing his brain that, yes, he does have an assignment due in three weeks time.

He flips to the front of his book and takes notes.

___

___

Again, they're sitting by the exact same tree as yesterday and reading the exact same books, but something is perhaps a little bit off about it. Because despite how much they genuinely enjoy reading together, their books have been discarded on the grass beside their crossed legs and are listening in to the enthusiastic conversation about a wedding on Roman's mother's side of the family. "I honestly never thought they'd finally tie the knot, they've been dancing around the idea for so long."

Virgil, snickering at his best friend's excitement, shrugs loosely. "Marriage is one hell of a commitment, dude. Both sides have to be one hundred percent sure before anything happens."

Roman nods in agreement, still grinning. "True, true. I'm just so happy for them, y'know? My tía had a bad experience once and it took a huge toll on her," he pauses, possibly reflecting on the 'bad experience' and how it had also taken a toll on him to see a member of his family in such pain, "Do you think you'll ever want to get married?"

Wow, he'd never actually thought of marriage before. Does that mean he doesn't want to get married one day? Virgil wonders whether any guy would want to date a trans man like him, it's not like he has many redeeming qualities to cancel out the anxiety and the existentialism. "Uh, I think so, yeah. I've never really thought much about it before, but I'm guessing you have because you're you."

Laughing loudly at his friend's assumption, Roman nods perhaps somewhat reluctantly. That pride of his was going to get the best of him one day. "Of course I have! I am and always have been a hopeless romantic."

"Of course."

"And there's nothing wrong with being a hopeless romantic!"

Virgil grins. "Most of the time."

Instead of replying, Roman feigns the most dramatic death Virgil has ever seen and almost smacks his head against the rough trunk of their favourite tree whilst doing so. As Virgil laughs helplessly at his friend's 'near-death experience', Roman rolls his eyes and holds his chin in his palm, resting his elbow on his thigh. "So, Ava," his stomach turns, "my dearest friend in the entire world who I swear would thoroughly enjoy watching me die slowly, would you be at all interested in being my plus one for my tía's wedding?"

With an already unsteady breath catching in his throat, Virgil tugs at the thread holding the fabric of his sweatpants together and smiles shakily at his best friend in the entire world who'd just unintentionally misgendered him. "Wow, Princey, 'plus one'? I'm really feeling the wedding magic."

Roman, with yet another eye-roll and a grin that almost splits his face in two, leans forward, taking both of Virgil's hands in his own. Their eyes lock and for a moment, Virgil completely forgets about how good of an actor his best friend is. "Ava, my darling," and there's that nausea again, but Virgil finds it rather difficult to concentrate on such a thing when Roman is moving even closer, "would you do me the absolute honour of being my date to my tía's wedding?"

Virgil, plastering a grin on his face, nods.

___

___

Arriving home, Virgil smells the familiar aroma of takeout pizza sitting in the kitchen. Too bad he's feeling too sick to eat anything yet.

He asks his mother to keep some aside for him and heads upstairs, throwing himself onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow. It smells like old food and dust; he should really wash these soon. But not even that not-so-nice smell can deter him from attempting to become part of the duvet.

It would hurt. He knew that much from the beginning; being misgendered and having your dead name used would always hurt, no matter who it was from or whether or not it was on purpose. He'd known right from the moment where he'd decided to identify privately as a man named Virgil Sanders, a transgender man who wouldn't tell a soul that he wasn't a woman called Ava Sanders; that everyone would continue as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just made the biggest discovery of his life. But God, hearing Roman call him by his dead name was like a kick to the gut. No, in fact, it was as if he'd just gone and stabbed him in the stomach with a hot blade, searing his insides until there was nothing left but mush.

What can he do about that though? Telling Roman the truth is out of the question and he can't just say that he dislikes being called Ava and change his name to something just as feminine, because it would still fucking hurt.

There's nothing he can do, really.

His door opens so suddenly, he nearly jumps out of bed like a startled kitten. But when he glances up to see who it is, he immediately wants to curl up and try again to become part of the duvet. Because standing there with his arms folded and face contorted in concern, is Virgil's father. He has eyes that are bright and oh-so blue, unlike Virgil and his mothers, who were born with darker irises. Unfortunately, those glowing sapphire eyes are rather unbefitting for someone like his father. "Ava, is everything alright? You don't seem like yourself."

If only he knew who 'himself' was. "I'm fine, dad. Just had a rough day at college."

"You want to talk about it?"

The words are supposed to form a question, but Virgil knows that tone of voice. He hasn't got a choice. A sigh tears from his throat as he pushes himself up into a sitting position in the middle of his bed, settling his hands in his lap in order to keep an eye on them. These kinds of conversations make his hands do weird things like flop and wave and shake rapidly. He supposes it's just the nerves. "Roman invited me to his aunt's wedding."

Instantly, his father's lips curl and his nose wrinkles, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he imagines something Virgil doesn't even want to know in his mind. "Isn't he..."

This goes on for a while.

Virgil sighs. "Gay?"

"Yes."

"He is, yeah. But I'm guessing there's no boyfriend or anything in his life right now, he'd tell me if there was."

His dad hums lightly, as if plotting. And Virgil doesn't like that one bit. "Yet, he invited you to be his date to a wedding? Sounds like maybe he's gotten past that."

Oh Christ, this conversation is really happening, isn't it? Virgil swallows and his hands tighten into fists, attempting to hide the sudden tightness of his mouth. "He's not going to 'get past' being gay, Dad. That's just who he is, you don't get any say in it."

And, of course, his dad immediately becomes defensive. "Did I even imply that I get a say in it? I mean, if he were my son, I wouldn't allow it. But if his parents do, then that's got nothing to do with me."

He pauses and barely gives Virgil enough time to hide his sweaty palms in the sleeves of his hoodie before he crosses his arms once again, keeping Virgil at a slight distance, which Virgil does not mind in the slightest. "I was only trying to say that these things usually end up being phases, only temporary! Roman is likely as straight as a ruler and is just exploring other... options."

"Rulers can bend."

His dad suddenly howls with laughter that sounds far too forced and pats Virgil's shoulder gently. "Nice one, sweetheart!"

"What?"

"Ruler's can bend. As in a 'bender'. Very funny."

And suddenly he feels sick. "Can I go out? Just to the park for a bit."

His father places a hand on his cheek and nods, telling him that he's eighteen and can do whatever the hell he wants to. Clearly, he doesn't mean it. But Virgil refuses to dwell on it and rushes out the door.

Fortunately for his aching feet, the park is nearby and there aren't many people around his estate who'd really find any entertainment within it. He doesn't either. Not really. Swings are fun for a while, but soon he starts feeling sick and he knows for a fact that if he stays on the swing for too long tonight, the weight in his stomach currently will completely tear through his skin and drag him downwards until he's just falling. And falling. Until there's nowhere else to fall.

His dad will never accept him as a man.

That is fact. The homophobia he displayed, no matter how much his father will deny it, is proof of that. What about his mother? She always goes along with what her husband wants, so Virgil's going to take a stab and say she won't like it either.

And Roman? Virgil is still debating on whether to tell him. He keeps going back and forth as to whether it would be a good idea or if he should just keep it to himself for the rest of his life. Could he go as Ava just to keep the people he loves in his life?

... No.

He knows that he could never pretend to be someone he isn't, even if he wants to. Even though he really wishes he could just be happy as Ava Sanders.

The street blurs past him as he runs towards the swings, throwing himself at them and pushing himself up and up and up. As far up as he can go. Maybe he'll just heave himself so far upwards that the sky will just swallow him and let him forget everything. Allow him to let go of everything.

Perhaps the darkness is seeping so far into his ears that it's beginning to infect his mind because now he's wondering whether it would be better to die with his loved ones believing he's a girl, so they'd at least miss him. Or would they figure out that being transgender isn't wrong? It wouldn't really matter if they did, it would be too late. Too late to tell him how much they love him, though his father doesn't do that much anyway, which doesn't really bother Virgil, considering his father has always been that way. Not good at expressing his feelings.

Neither is he, but he'd rather not think about that.

He'd rather not think at all, honestly. Because he knows that if he died, whether they knew him as a girl or a man, they would still miss him to an extent. Death is much more serious than his brain is making it out to be, which doesn't make sense because being dead would kind of eliminate the brain's function too. And maybe he's not thinking about Roman's reaction thoroughly enough.

Roman has always been a kind man, a ridiculously sweet and stupid man. Not stupid intelligence-wise, but stupid as in reckless and oblivious. The two of them have been friends for so long, it would be more surprising if he didn't accept Virgil for who he is rather than if he did. Maybe Virgil's just a pessimist. Maybe he's a realist.

Maybe he should just keep swinging.