Beta Reader: Nobody because I forgot oops⏤

Warnings: Strong language/swearing, unintentional misgendering, homophobia mention, sexism mention and panic attacks
___
“The path of self-discovery is a long and true adventure,” Roman once told him as they’d sat on Virgil’s bedroom floor. “And yeah, it can be scary, but I honestly think everyone is strong enough to battle their way through it. It’s just… difficult sometimes.”

That had been a couple of days after he’d come out as gay to his mother and was in the midst of dealing with her lukewarm response. Virgil, blissfully unaware of the similar struggle he would have in the future, had been all-too-happy to comfort him. Though he knew he had never been good at comforting other people or fully understanding how to do just that, his stomach turned at the thought of leaving Roman alone in such a vulnerable position.

A few days later, his mother expressed her full support, but explained that it may take a while for her to completely understand it. It only took a year or so until she was fully prepared to lead a pride parade, along with most other members of his family. Most of them.

At that time, Virgil had been so inspired and had admired Roman so much for his bravery, but now, as he sits among endless half-empty notebooks and notepads and crumpled sheets of paper, he realises just how good of an actor Roman has always been. There had never been any bravery in Roman’s wavering smile. It had always been just a pretty painted picture to make the rest of the world happy whilst he had been dealing with possibly the worst rejection of his life.

Why does he feel the need to do this? His laptop sits in front of him with the wikipedia page explaining what being transgender means blaring through the screen, the pen between his fingers shifts from left to right. Left to right. Left to right to left again. Is this really necessary? He knows what being transgender means, at least in his situation, so why does he need to research it and write it down like some sort of science project? He doesn’t even like science!

A muffled cry of frustration escapes him as he drops the pen and buries his face in his pillow. His fingers ache as they clutch the soft pillow cover and really, he should stop holding it so tightly because it’s really beginning to hurt, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the strength to. And there’s something in his throat, something that is forcing it to contract continuously until he absolutely has to heave out the acid burning the back of his throat. Even still, his neck feels like one large bruise for a while afterward. His eyes should feel damp, there should be a hotness leaking down his cheeks and burning a red stain into his skin. But there isn’t. Why isn’t there?

The fact that he isn’t having the reaction his body clearly wants him to is only frustrating him even more, hurting his throat and his fingers and his clenched teeth and his sucked in stomach until he lets out a dry sob that he prays his parents don’t hear. If he writes anything down and keeps it, even in a hidden drawer, his parents will find it and his life will be over. But he wants to know how to be transgender in the most subtle way he can be for now.

But wikipedia can’t teach him how to be transgender, how could you teach someone to be a man? Being a man isn’t just having the ‘right’ anatomy, or about enjoying sports and beer. He doesn’t know what being a man means. Especially a man pretending to be a woman.

His eyes betray him and sneak down to take a peek at a crumpled up note sitting beside him on his blanket, and even though he can barely make it out due to the aggressive manner he’d balled it up in, he still knows exactly what is written down there.

A big title that reads ‘Binding Tips’ in his chicken-scratch handwriting. And then several bullet points explaining the safer ways to bind, websites that sell the best and most comfortable binders, and what to do if you want to bind but don’t want to come out yet. Truthfully, he knows that this is all incredibly important information that he’ll need when he does decide to come out.

But he really doesn’t want to think about that.

He doesn’t want to come out. Ever.

But he doesn’t want to be trapped in the closet forever either.

___

The one mercy Virgil has in his life comes in the form of creative exercise. Because no matter how much he loves dancing, but claims to hate working out, he knows that dancing is technically exercise.

Held in the back of a local theatre, Virgil had discovered the dance class due to a poster hanging up on a billboard outside of his old high school one day. Vivid colours scattered across a page of navy blue, words written in white expressing the teacher’s enthusiasm for gaining new students and how he could be one of those new student’s by ‘the very next day!’ Sure, the overwhelming excitement had been a little off-putting, but at the time, Virgil had been craving a little more excitement in his life. It had been… a rough couple of months when he’d discovered these classes.

But right now he sits on an over-crowded bus, enduring a ten minute journey to do something his father had been especially passionate about. Virgil had never understood why, until the thought of dance usually being seen as a somewhat feminine activity by those with the mentality of his father crossed his mind. Even street dance, which is the type of dance Virgil is currently being taught. God, he doesn’t understand where all these stereotypes come from.

As soon as a boy is interested in dancing, they’re immediately more feminine than others? It just doesn’t make any sense. Are men not allowed to have fun anymore? Is the whole point of being a man living a mundane life filled only with ‘hard work’ and ‘women’? Or maybe even the occasional ‘beer’? It’s just… so stupid.

Why is it that when a woman enjoys beer, a lot of men will like her more because she’s shown that she can ‘be one of the boys’, but when a biological female genuinely wants to be a man, they aren’t allowed? How does drinking beer allow a woman to be ‘one of the boys’, but a desire to have the same body and mind as a biological man is impossible if you have the anatomy of a female? Beer over desire. Materialism over passion. Huh.

As he enters the large wooden doors of the theatre, relief washes over him and holds him in an embrace that he knows will last the entire two hours he’ll be here. He almost wants to cry at the sight of Remington Jewells skipping towards him with an empty Starbucks cup in his hand, shades tucked messily atop his head, throwing his bleach blonde hair out in all directions and reminding Virgil that there was more he could be thinking about than the value of lust over love. “Ava, how’re you doing, babes?”

And just like that, he wants to vomit.

He’d almost forgotten. Remy doesn’t know, nor will he know for a long, long time if Virgil has any say in it. Because despite the fact that he would almost definitely accept Virgil for who he is, he can’t risk word getting back to his parents. Remy doesn’t like his parents much, but still. And now Virgil is beginning to realise that none of his friends like his parents. Well then.

“Hey, Rem. I’m good, just tired.”

“I feel ya, hun. Couldn’t sleep?”

At the reminder of the absolutely awful night before, Virgil hums quietly and suppresses a shudder. “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. Mind was too awake.”

Remy wraps an arm around his shoulders and pats his arm gently, muttering on about how he understands the agonies of being awake until ungodly hours of the morning, asking questions that ruin your life forever. For a moment, Virgil feels concern creep up the back of his neck, cold and itchy, heavy in his stomach until Remy gives an example of his so-called ‘agonising questions’. “Like, am I really supposed to just sit and accept the spelling of chihuahua? I don’t fucking think so. No ma’am.”

Biting on a sigh that seems desperate to escape his lips, Virgil just chuckles and asks how Remy thinks it should be spelled. And from there, their conversation seems to spiral down a slope of God’s spelling mistakes to God’s genuine mistakes. Virgil doesn’t completely enjoy that conversation. But Remy doesn’t seem to notice. “Why should non-binary people have to hide who they are just because some prick can’t mind their own business? Honestly, it pisses me off. And it- it’s the same with transgender people! Don’t they deserve to feel safe being who they are? Maybe a little bit of respect? Fucking ridiculous, honestly.”

God, he really loves Remy, but absolutely hates this conversation. “True, true."

“Sorry, babe. I got a little rant-y there. How’ve you been anyway? I haven’t heard from you, which is a crime because we’re so damn perfect together!” His eyes brighten and a cheeky grin stretches from one cheek to the other.

Virgil swallows and shrugs loosely. “Meh. Same as always.”

There’s hesitation in Remy’s expression before he hops down from his place on the stage and looks up at him. “Look, I know we don’t usually talk about this stuff, but have you thought about calling the doctor? I know you said it’s too much, but I really think it’d help.”

It aches a little to do it, but somehow, Virgil manages to smile weakly down at his friend. “I’m okay. I just need to talk to people more, maybe get out a little more often.”

Remy’s mouth curls down for a split second before he’s smiling once again. “If you’re trying to ask me out on a date, you already know I’d say yes.”

Virgil snorts. “Shut up. But seriously, you wanna get coffee or something this weekend?”

“One thousand percent yes.”

His muscles are singing. This past week has been hell and getting the chance to ignore all of that for a little while, to simply be alive and follow the beat rather than expectations is exactly what he’s been needing. Arms feeling limp, but more alive than he’s felt for the entire week, he follows the steps of his teacher’s choreography to some pop song he knows exactly one line of and makes sure not to get too close to any of his other dancing partners.

Remy is sitting over with one of the instructors, chatting and gesticulating in a manner that suggests he’s talking about more than just dancing. His eyes are bright, but from where Virgil completes the choreographed dance with one last move, he can’t tell whether that brightness is due to his typical passionate self, or whether it’s something else entirely.

As he heads over to make sure Remy’s okay, he drops his gaze down to his feet and suddenly notices how large his chest looks in the shirt he’s wearing. He wants a jacket or a coat. No, he wants a gigantic trench coat. With a gigantic trench coat, he’ll just be a stick of nothing. A stick of dark fabric and buttons, and who wants to stare at that?

“Babe, you okay?”

Instinctually, Virgil wraps his arms around himself at the sudden voice intruding his thoughts, but even when he realises it’s only Remy, he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t really know how to talk, anxiety tends to remove the memory of speech from one’s psyche, but he doesn’t want Remy to worry, so he just smiles and attempts to laugh. “You scared me.”

Remy frowns. “Sorry… Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little sweaty.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… you look like you’ve been sweating,” Remy says. “Something’s up. ‘Your parents being dicks again?”

Virgil manages a small but genuine laugh. “You could at least pretend to like them, you know?”

Raising his eyebrows, Remy hums lowly. “I could, but I’d rather not give them any ideas.”

“Uh-huh,” Virgil says, laughing again and rolling his eyes. “And no⏤ Well, my dad’s been a little… homophobic, recently and that was uncomfortable.”

Remy glares down at the hard floor. “Asshole.”

Virgil nods in agreement. “I’m aware.”

They’re both quiet for a short while, but Virgil doesn’t really know how to break the silence. He knows he doesn’t want to talk about his parents anymore. So, after another moment of quiet, he clears his throat. “What were you and the instructor talking about, anyway? Is everything okay?”

“Oh,” Remy mutters, seemingly caught off guard by the question. “Yeah, I was just negotiating the outfits we're going to wear for the show. I don’t like how… gendered they are. It just…”

He trails off, combing his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, makes me feel weird? Like, why do the girls have to wear skirts? Why can’t the guys wear them too?”

Virgil grins. “Always looking for a fight.”

Remy falters for a moment before smiling back and huffing out a laugh. “I suppose so. It just feels icky. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not, honestly.”

Remy only nods.
___

He gets home at around six and immediately rushes up the stairs to his room, collapsing on his bed and shuffling under his covers. Just the thought of his father trying to force conversation makes his stomach spin. Feeling so wrong around his parents shouldn’t be a thing, should it? But he dreads every interaction, every conversation, because somehow it always ends up hurting him in one way or another.

Just as he settles into bed, ready to scroll through his phone applications until he passes out, a ‘ding’ informs him of a new text message. From Roman.

'Hey! Are you still cool with being my date to my tía’s wedding?xxx'

Virgil feels a smile involuntarily creep up on his face, dragging heat up his cheeks along with it. He sighs softly and types a confirmation text back, staring at his screen and silently willing those three dots to appear. They don’t for a little while, but even so, he constantly taps his messages app just to double check. He doesn’t want to miss it, after all.

About half an hour later, he hears that familiar ‘ding’ sounds out again and he gasps, quickly tapping on the message and reading it through. He’s already imagining the wedding and how much fun he and Roman will have. And how cool Roman will look in his suit. Will Virgil have to wear a dress or a suit? It wouldn’t bother him too much either way, but he’d rather know now.

'Yes!!! Can’t wait!! Finally, I’ll bring a girl home and make CERTAIN PEOPLE happy hahaha!xxx'

A shaky sigh and then he locks his phone, resigning himself to staring up at the ceiling and thinking up ideas on what to wear for the wedding. Probably a dress.