Archive of Our Own ^beta

Your chest is tight and you think you might vomit.

Well, you would if there was anything in your stomach.

Sure your hair is short and your clothes are loose, but it doesn’t stop them from calling you a girl. It’s not like they know better, not like you’ve told them, but it feels like a punch in the gut every time. You could tell them, you know you could, but there’s that flash of judgement, that idea that you’re just doing this to be trendy or for attention, that stops you.

You know they wouldn’t

No one did that when Rose said she was dating a girl.

No one did that when John said he was probably asexual.

No one did that when Jade said she was bi.

They didn’t even do it when you said you were pan. They just laughed a lot because your friend group was just a bunch of queers.

But gender’s such a different fucking thing you’re scared they’ll still call you a girl, just laugh off your admission like a joke.

You just want to be Dave.

Why can’t you just be Dave?

Maybe you are just doing it for attention, you tell yourself. Maybe it’s some sick twisted way of asking for affection from your friends.

Maybe you want to claw the breasts off your body so they’ll grow back bigger.

Maybe you want to pull the softness from your hips to be the appealing, narrowly built girl you know that guys want.

Maybe you’re sick, sick, sick with this gender bullshit and you just need someone to fuck you out of it and make you like being a girl.

You’ve curled around yourself and you’re gasping into your jeans. You want to talk to someone about it but you can’t they’ll just laugh.

Your heart hurts.

There’s a ringing from your phone. You drag yourself out of your blurry-eyed self-pity and look at the screen.

Rose is calling.

You panic for a second before shoving your stupid, worthless, irrelevant problems aside for your friend.

“Yo.”

“Did you really just greet me with, ‘Yo,’ Liz?”

Your gut clenches.

“You bet your ass I did. Now what are you calling about?”

“I was calling to talk about the newest passive aggressive jab my mother has taken at me, but we can talk later if you’d like.”

“What? I’m always up for a chat about your mom probs, what makes you thing now is any different?”

“You sounded agitated, I just assumed you’d want to be left alone.”

Fuck no that’s the last thing you want.

“No.”

“No?”

“I… no, I want to hear about your crazy family drama.”

She continues hesitantly, but eventually delves wholly into a story you’re only have listening to. Something about cats and dishes, you think. It could just as well be about sweaters and vodka, for all you know. You don’t realize the line’s silent.

“Elizabeth?”

“Fuck, what? Sorry I spaced off.”

There’s a snort. “No shit. You know, if you didn’t want to hear about my mother, you could have just said so, Liz.”

“STOP IT,” wrenches itself from your mouth, pained and bitter. You bite your tongue directly after. You stupid, stupid asshole.

“… Stop what?” Her voice is quiet and hurt and you hate yourself.

“Stop. St.. op acting like I can’t say when I don’t want to talk about something. I’m completely capable.”

“We both know how horrible you are at saying no to anyone about anything. What’s this really about?”

You choke.

“Liz?”

“That.”

“What, your name? You want me to stop calling me your name?”

“It’s… not my name.”

“Oh?” She sounds intrigued. At least she’s not laughing at you. Yet. “Then what is your name?”

You’re quiet for a while. She waits patiently on the other end of the line. You finally muster up enough courage to say the one syllable name you’ve chosen for yourself.

“Dave.”

Now it’s her turn to be quiet. Your foot’s tapping rapid fire against the edge of your bed and you’re drumming your fingers against your knee.

“So,” she begins. “Dave, what does this mean?”

“It means I’m Dave, not Elizabeth.”

“I’ve gathered that. I just mean for gender-”

“Boy.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No, and I didn’t even mean to tell you. It just kinda slipped out.”

“Are you planning on telling anyone else?”

“I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer. “It’s touchy, you know? Like how will they react? What happens if they don’t accept it? Act like it’s some huge joke and laugh at me?”

You’re so far out of your coolkid persona that you’d be surprised if you ever got it back. Rose is taking this much better than you’d imagined and it feels really great, but she brought up other people and you’re terrified all over again.

“Dave, come on. You do realize we all love you, right? No one’s going to laugh at you, certainly not for something this important.”

“But what if, Rose? Dadbert’s ‘Accept everyone’ schpeel can only go so far. And sure, he’s good with sexuality stuff, but what if when it hits gender John completely freaks and turns into the surprise transphobe no one saw coming? And what about Harley? She takes so many things as jokes I don’t know if she’d even take me seriously. What if she thinks it’s some big thing for irony? I can’t even fucking tell Bro because he could fucking disown me. But what if he didn’t. Would that even be good? The strifes would probably get worse, I’d end up bleeding out on the roof because he wouldn’t care anymore, fuck, Rose-”

You realize you’re hyperventilating into your cellphone.

“Calm down. It’s going to be okay, but first you need to calm down.”

You stutter your breaths into your hand. It smells like plastic and that undeniably skin smell. You breathe for a couple of seconds. Slowly at first, and then normal again.

“Okay. Okay I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Broach the topic slowly. See what their opinions on gender are. Though I highly doubt John and Jade will take it as you’re imagining, just try to test the waters. Don’t tell them about you. Ask them about one of the more prominent trans figures in the media. See if you’re safe to tell them. Alright?”

You breathe again. “Alright.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to be okay, Dave.”

“Okay.” You feel a little better inside, but this is a lot of stuff that you were not expecting to have to deal with right now.

“Now go to sleep. You sound exhausted.”

You snort. “Alright, mom.”

“You ridiculous.”

“You think I don’t know that.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Pushy pushy, fine.”

“See you at school tomorrow?”

“Yeah, yeah. You go to bed too. It’s late.”

“Who’s the mom now, David?”

“Goddammit that’s not my name and you know it.”

“I know. But goodnight. And Dave? It really is going to be okay.”

“Whatever you say, LaMomde.”

You hang up the phone. It’s eleven and you are not one ounce of tired, but sleep sounds better than wallowing in thought, so you do.