Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You tell yourself it’s because of the work, because of the work, because of the work, so often that you soon start to believe it. Most people see what they understand—your average hunter, no, huntress. Albeit visibly unsettled in their own skin. Everyone has their insecurities, right?

Black turtlenecks are professional, you tell yourself. They disguise specks of blood effectively. And if they obscure the size of your chest, elongate the line of your shoulders, well that’s a convenient benefit. Hair is just hair, makeup is part of the uniform, after all.

Tara and the hunter team are good people. But good people aren’t necessarily educated, even in this day and age. You have no right to judge others on their ignorance, given how much you tamp down your own existence. Something about internalized phobia creeps to mind but you tamp that down too.

Something that Xavier and Zayne have in common is that they coddle you like something fragile. During your first few months with the Hunter’s Association, or under Zayne’s care, you are chastised for ‘putting yourself in harm’s way’ while doing your job, and underestimated under the excuse of chivalry. In reality, it burns like a betrayal each time. To them, you will always be something weaker.

It’s even more apparent that they see you as something other when flirtatious advances get in the way of business.

It isn’t until the N109 zone… Well, that’s not necessarily true. There had been moments at home with Grandma, past relationships too, where the uncomfortable had nearly been broached. But it isn’t until you meet Sylus in the N109 zone that you feel utterly exposed.

“You’re a brave Kitten, aren’t you?,” Sylus’s blazing red eyes take you in, gazing you up and down for what feels like an excruciating amount of time. “My, a wolf in kitten’s clothing.”

In an instant, you are a deer in headlights. It occurs to you that just because you don’t know what you are doesn’t mean everyone else is blind too.

He smiles with all teeth, and suddenly the chivalrous act he’d put on for the desperate Linkon huntress is nowhere to be seen.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Your voice is strung high with tension, still laced with a placating sweetness that you were taught to speak with.

At this, Sylus raises a brow curiously. “I’ve met your kind before,” he explains with an alarming sense of nonchalence.

“Right. And what the hell is my kind?” You manage through gritted teeth. Practically baiting him to say it. Say it.

Say it.

Sylus doesn’t rise to the bait, however. His gaze softens with some realization that you’re missing.

“Well, Sweetheart,” he says instead. “That’s not why we’re here. Now, back to the negotiation at hand.”

Sylus’ guest room is inky and smoky red, oozing masculinity to such an extent that if it were any other person’s home, you’d think they were overcompensating. Instead, the rich oud of the aroma diffusers pleasantly seep into your clothing. You relish in the privacy of the space. Caleb’s room back home was never anything like this. A part of you wants to copy and paste the feeling to your own home.

To be honest, there is no excuse for how foreign you feel in your own home. At the end of the day when you are alone with just your thoughts and your own body, focusing on the work isn’t an effective excuse for the bare walls and soulless decor. At times like those, drowning out your thoughts with blaring shows and yapping influencers works well enough.

The inky room is so quiet that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Just like in battle, you feel each tendon over your bones, each inch of skin stretch across those muscles. You are acutely aware of your existence. And before it grows overwhelming and far too much to process, there is a knock at the door.

“Darling, I’m coming in.”

Somehow, you simultaneously do and don’t expect Sylus of all people to require permission to a woman’s room.

“To the fault of none but our own, we had a dress tailor made,” Sylus confesses, as if he is disappointed by his own forethought.

“But?”

His mouth quirks up in amusement. “Though nothing as grandiose, we believe these should suit you fine.” Sylus then places two sets of neatly ironed suits on the silky sheets.

“Kieran was happy to lend a few options for the evening,” he continues as if you are speaking about something as mundane as weather. But you’ve never even seen three-piece suits like these before, much less had a chance to try one on. “You’re far too scrawny and short to fit my clothes yet.”

“Yet?” You all but splutter, no more coherent than Mephisto at this rate.

“Yet.” Sylus affirms before finally catching your eye. There is something knowing there behind those dangerous eyes. “I had a feeling the dress wouldn’t have been appreciated. Was I wrong?”

Damn that bastard. That… perceptive bastard. What is he trying to do?

“No… No this is good. Thanks. Tell Kieran thanks, I mean. But if I attend the auction in a sui-“

If there was anything more to doubt, Sylus ducks his head down to your ear and practically whispers, “You should attend in a suit, do consider the maroon if you’d like to match.”

Your reflexes immediately chase that cheeky bastard out of the room with the heel of your work shoes.

“Woof.” Sylus says when you finally reach the foot of the staircase where he’s waiting.

Horrifically, it looks as though his three minions beside him are desperately holding back the urge to bark too. How does a crow look like it has something to say when they don’t speak? Something about the sheer ridiculousness of the situation feels like a dream, it gives you the courage and comfort to speak your mind in the face of a man-eating cobra.

“I heard that all rich and powerful men were into weird stuff but thanks for the proof.”

Sylus smirks down at you in reply.

Chapter Text

The auction goes well enough. Sylus’s influence over the N109 zone is threatening enough to ward off any nosey attendees that want to know who or what you are to Sylus. The suit feels luxurious against your skin with each movement, and by the time he releases you back to Linkon City that evening, there is an undeniable… something between you.

“Here,” Sylus offers your phone back to you as he finally pulls up the sleek car to your apartment complex.

“How long have you had my phone?” You rummage through your backpack as if Sylus possibly had some elaborate dupe of your actual phone.

“You really should pay more attention to pickpockets, Sweetheart. I swiped this back at the auction.”

“Why?” You ignore him in favour of suspicion. He must’ve stolen it during his impromptu dance before the building had imploded.

“I wanted to make sure you had my number if you needed me,” he replies honestly and it sends a chill down your spine. Smug bastard with his fancy sports car and lithe fingers. “Call me whenever.”

“Thanks, but I won’t.”

Slipping back into playing the role of little miss Huntress after being seen and being out is some of the most demoralizing days of your life. Tara doesn’t understand how your newfound depressive slump is so vastly different to when you were dealing with the loss of your family, but it is. And because you still don’t know how, or don’t dare to learn how to describe what you’re going through, you don’t let anyone in.

Xavier takes the distance like a personal rejection, and Zayne fucks off to the arctic somewhere once more. Surprisingly, it’s Rafayel who grabs you by the scruff of your moping ass and forces you to leave the house outside of work.

“You’ve been different since the N109 zone. Did something happen there?” Rafayel asks bluntly over the three plates of mini cakes he ordered in attempt to cheer you up. And maybe it’s because he’s an artist so you think he might get it, or maybe it’s because of some hinted ancient bond between you two that you know Rafayel will have to accept you, but you tell him what you can.

“I can’t believe you gambled with the leader of Onichynus, you must have some sort of masochistic death wish.”

And it’s actually nice to hear Rafayel’s peals of laughter as he stuffs his face with cake while you tell him about the suits, the heated banter between you two, the tension. You’re right to trust him because whatever feelings Rafayel might’ve had for you, he handles like a champ and is there to support you wordlessly.

“You,” Rafayel pats your arms awkwardly as you set to part ways for the night. “You deserve happiness. Even if it doesn’t look as normal as everyone else’s. And if you need a good hairdresser, I know someone.”

You pull him to hug goodbye anyway because man or woman—you are still you.

Chapter Text

Despite all your talk, you do end up texting Sylus. The first messages you send are filled with palpable awkwardness as you tread a strange line between feminine approachability and masculine nonchalance, because you’re unsure of what Sylus expects of you. It definitely doesn’t help that you tread a fine line between wanting to call or block the bastard, too.

But then the awkwardness rescinds when you realise that Sylus doesn’t expect anything of you at all. And even if he did, you wouldn’t want to give him what he wanted.

He tells you a surprising amount about this work, Mephisto, the twins, and how his days in the N109 zone look. You tell him about Xavier’s kicked-puppy expression and how you especially miss Grandma on the weekends which is when you would have been home eating Caleb’s food together. There’s no expectations from either one of you and it’s nice.

Sylus comes up to Linkon for business a few weeks later and asks to see you for dinner. Just two friends and drinks at a chic new Izakaya in town.

You can’t remember the last time you felt so alive. The beer is dry and crisp and the tatami mat leaves imprints on your legs and you know that Sylus sees you more than your Hunter uniform’s skirt and blouse.

His ruby eyes glisten and his sly mouth cracks endless retorts to your sharp witted quips, it’s even better than your endless texts. You clink your drinks together and he handles his alcohol far better than you ever could. With Sylus, you feel seen, you feel real.

There were lovers in the past, of course; you aren’t an unattractive person by any means. But the way you presented didn’t exactly attract the kind of people you were interested in. Namely: straight men—sometimes even gay women—all looking for a girlfriend in you.

You go along with it for the first few decades of your life, if not for the fact that you don’t have the words to pinpoint what feels so off about it. Nevermind the difficulty of finding a good partner in this day and age, now there was a level of undefined complexity on top. Ultimately, partners come and go but the feeling stays.

Sylus stays.

“Does me being this way… change things?” You’ve been meaning to ask it for a while. Ever since the evening phone calls grew more frequent and Sylus’s scathing tongue began to sand down to something much kinder. Something about his sharp defenses and prickly arrogance tells you it’s been a while since he’s let someone in, too.

“I’ll admit it complicated things,” he confesses in a low rumble across the phone line. The microphone rustles against his silk pillowcase as you hear him settle into a more comfortable position.

It’s a Wednesday night and you both have work tomorrow and there’s something sadistically satisfying about knowing you caused an identity crisis in someone who oozes with confidence as much as Sylus does. Or maybe it’s just relieving that you aren’t alone on this foreign experience, you correct yourself.

“Good to know we’re in the same-“

“For only about ten minutes, though,” he accidentally interrupts as the connection catches up to your end.

“You know what?” You scoff in disbelief. And annoyance. Maybe even betrayal. 

“Fuck you, actually.” You hang up.

Mephisto, aka Sylus’ sentient puppet, is practically up your ass the next two days spying on you because you decide to lock in and focus on the work. Not this… whatever the hell identity crisis Sylus was encouraging in you.

But then a week later in the field, you and Xavier tackle a new type of wanderer: a resin creature. It peels out of the bark of the forest trees and accumulates into a smelly, lumpy form. While you both leave the battle unscathed, your hair isn’t as fortunate, and resin thoroughly coats the lengths of your hair into one impossibly hardened clump.

When Rafayel sees you, he gasps and clutches his heart dramatically, but promises he knows just the guy for a ‘hair disaster such as yours’.

It’s just a haircut, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. Twenty odd years of your life severed down to a mop of perfectly tousled hair and you are positively reborn. A part of you wonders why it took you so long to do something so simple, while the other parts of you begin to grow more and more restless as they get more and more tastes of life.

“I didn’t even recognise you!” Some colleagues remark and Tara takes about two hundred selfies with you, commenting how handsome the new slick back look is on you and you have to duck your head to hide the rising blush.

You decide to send Sylus one of those selfies that you feel especially different in.

Handsome. Comes the first reply promptly.

But someone is far too close to my man. You are so preoccupied with the word man that your brain doesn’t even notice ‘my’.

Chapter Text

It’s remarkable how much life begins to improve after your haircut.

You swear that Zayne takes you a little more seriously when discussing that no, avoiding danger is not possible in your line of work. And yes, the pain you occasionally experience is just from monsters and not due to your biology. Or how some of the men on the team censor their words less around you, perhaps now seeing you as too ugly of a woman to be chivalrous around. Misogyny is a strange thing, you are reminded.

As the season melts away into morning dew and birdsong, change is in the air. Some of the team gets rearranged and you’re bidding goodbyes and greetings to new faces. 

And despite the flicker of hope that spring could bring about a change in yourself, the feeling stays.

You stand in your apartment taking in the evening ebb and flow of traffic lights below. Somewhere along the lines, the shows don’t blare and the influencers don’t yap loud enough to drown out the thoughts anymore. So you decide to save yourself the electricity bills and become acquainted with silence. But you can hardly use the same excuse for your dimly lit showers and covered bathroom mirrors.

One night, in a fit of dysphoric mania, you research. And read. And finally touch the words that you have been so terrified of with a very impersonal, very detached sort of prodding. And in one fell swoop, the knowledge consumes you. Without the right resources, you know that you need to work extra hard, be extra discreet about it too. Optimal foods, exercises for muscle distribution, even best types of tea become all you can think about.

When Tara invites you over for dinner, you decline because she can’t possibly understand the kind of macronutrients you need to maintain per meal. When Sylus calls you in the evenings, you prefer more and more frequently to just listen and type because hearing your own voice and knowing he can hear you the way you currently are is wrong. It’s all wrong. When Rafayel invites you out to the movies, you know you could be at the gym working on building your preferred physique.

But it’s not a problem if it’s the only way you can turn the lights back on at home and look yourself in the eye—it’s the solution. 

Sylus and Rafayel are good people. Recently, even Xavier has been able to speak more normally with you, too. But men are men and none of them have the words to point out how heavy your shoulders seem to sag nowadays with unknown weight, or how your eyes grow more sunken with each passing day.

“Join me for dinner tonight.” Sylus says before you even registered that you’d picked up the phone. You’ve been sluggish recently, as if the world was slowing down to drag out the agony you are in because surely you were born to be punished. Or maybe it was just the usual flu getting passed around when it was starting to get a little too hot again.

“I don’t know what time we’ll be finished here,” you begin, your fingers anxiously combing through your sticky, pomaded hair. Anxious because you know what’s coming, you know what Sylus is like by now: he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

“Then I will wait. No matter how long it takes. Let’s have dinner at that Izakaya again.”

Your face is pinched and you could not sound more reluctant if you tried. “Okay. Fine.”

Sylus is unusually quiet as you scan the menu later that evening. You can practically feel his searing gaze boring a hole through the laminated sheet and into your skull as you slump further down in your seat. 

“Have you been eating well? You look-” Sylus finally says and Jesus Christ you are not going to have this conversation right now.

“Shut up.” You snap immediately. You may not know the specifics of what he wants to say but you cannot stand the idea of criticism when everything is in between and wrong and not done yet. “It doesn’t fucking matter how I look.”

When Sylus pushes the menu you had been wielding like a shield down, his eyes are so painfully knowing. “I think it does matter, Sweetheart. It seems like it matters a great deal to you.” His fingers are scorching where they touch yours in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “But this isn’t sustainable forever.”

Tears prickle your eyes because, deep down, you know he’s right. Ultimately, all of this would have been for nothing if you couldn’t sustain it—without the right hormones, you would revert back to what was most default for your body. So what has this all really been for?

“I know,” your reply comes quietly. You will not cry. “But what else am I supposed to do? What else can I do when nothing feels like it’s in my control except for this?” Your fingers grip back onto Sylus’s with a ferocity that turns your knuckles white. It reveals just how desperate you feel.

“We’ll find something else, I promise.” He squeezes your hand back. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Sylus stays true to his word and is nearly overbearing in his support. But given the circumstances, you can’t exactly fault him for playing mother hen.

It strikes you then, what makes Sylus so dedicated to your cause? Sure, your friendship was a given, but there were moments where his knowledge on the topic revealed something more than casual research, that he knew beyond what the articles could teach him.

“Sylus, it’s just over an hour from here. I commute it every single day, I’ll be fine.” You protest when he insists on leaving his fancy car behind in the parking lot overnight to escort you all the way back to your apartment.

“Then it’ll be just over two hours to go and come back. Right, Sweetheart?” He passes you your coat with a smile, and it’s a gesture of respect that you’ve noticed Sylus excels at. Sylus is chivalrous to all, making it a non-gendered trait of his, but he always makes sure to give you just that extra bit of independence.

You can’t help but wonder for the hundredth time what Sylus would be like as a partner. 

It's been over half a year since you first met, and only a fool would deny the spark between you two. But like an unspoken rule, neither of you broach the subject nor come close to crossing the line. Because crossing the line would change things, it would imply things. 

You smile at him in thanks, and his eyes soften imperceptibly. "Lead the way, Mr.Hunter."

Your eyes soften too.

On the train home, you fall into a companionable silence together. Sylus’s fingers tap quietly against his phone screen and you can’t stop thinking about all the mundane housekeeping that has slipped out from your attention for the past few weeks. Did you leave your laundry hanging in the living room again? What was the state of your apartment like?

“You’re growing more wrinkles, Sweetie.” Sylus comments without even looking away from his screen and you feel the tension in your shoulders slowly dissipate because you know he couldn’t care less about such trivialities at a time like this.

When you get to your apartment, Sylus’s looming height stands so awkwardly in the doorway that you have to take a picture before he turns to go.

“Delete that.” Sylus orders.

“No, I don’t think I will,” you cackle evilly as you banish him back into the night.

True to his word, Sylus calls you when he gets home later that evening to discuss different options of physically transitioning. Masculinization procedures to bottom surgery were trivial when it came to someone in Sylus’s financial and social position.

“Listen, Sylus,” you interrupt him in the middle of his rather graphic explanation of various bottom surgery options. “I appreciate your generosity, truly. But I can’t accept that much help.”

“Nonsense, darling, I’m not broke,” he scoffs and you want to reach through the phone and throttle the rich bastard. “Since it was feeling in control over your body you wanted, we could first find a surgeon specializing in-“

“I don’t think I’m ready yet. For any of that.” You admit quietly. Sylus’s initiative was a wonderful quality, but it was an overload of information and the thought of changing so drastically so quickly was… wrong.

He hears you though, because he always listens to you, and blessedly stops the onslaught of information immediately. “My apologies, Sweetheart. You’re right, let’s take things slow.”

Days pass and though Sylus had been quick to jump to the extremes of transition procedures, some of what he said rang true. Even if you were to take things slowly, maybe never even take another step in that direction, the least you could do for yourself is lower the barrier to entry and increase your support system.

So it’s nothing personal, but you request to change doctors from Zayne. 

The mature thing to have done would have been to tell him that you were transferring during your last appointment together, instead of letting him find out impersonally through the database. But you didn't know what truths would spill out of your mouth if Zayne prodded you for information.

And though Zayne would not be informed of the reasons for your change, patient confidentiality didn't exactly conceal the fact that you were now seeing a known expert in gender dysphoria and transgender health. It was still a niche field of study, after all.

You crack down and focus on the work once more, but this time you have an outlet for your buried feelings. Twice a month, you allow the feelings to exist in the therapy room. You give them the terminology they need and suddenly they are tangible and real. They grow powerful and run rampant as you unveil the layers of turmoil you’d been ignoring. In those one hour sessions, you are real.

“Cheers!” You and Sylus are sat on the soft carpet of your living room floor. Empty cans of already downed drinks decorate the table among the various snacks you procured from the convenience store earlier. The summer heat has been brutal this year but you still managed to climb the ranks despite everything and earn yourself a new promotion.

You say something and Sylus is chuckling his deep amber laugh around a mouthful of dried squid, it resonates richly and sounds like music and what you wouldn’t give to hear more and more.

So you crack another joke and Sylus laughs so hard that he chokes and splutters for a moment until his breath finally evens out. He lays his head on the coffee table and the man is, well, two, four, six… eight drinks in by now, so you cut him some slack. You gently nurse your fourth drink and pick at the bag of mixed nuts when he finally speaks again.

"What I would do to make you mine," is what you think you hear Sylus say, but his words are muffled against the table.

You blink owlishly. In the year you’ve known each other, neither of you ever dared to mention anything beyond a friendship during your dinners, late night calls. Until now.

Coward, you think.
“Hmm?” You say.

Sylus smiles up at you sadly, and it immediately sends a pang of hurt through you. "I know, it's not... easy," he shakes his head. Brilliant ruby eyes rueful with something so unfamiliar. "For you."

“Well, yes.” You reply, bluntly. “And?”

“No,” he sighs and sets his drink aside carefully. “This is difficult for you. But only you. I am—I have been—ready to try with you.”

You don’t even give yourself time to register the confession, you weren’t in any headspace to process what you felt about it. “Sylus, you’re drunk.”

“I don’t make a habit of changing my feelings based on my sobriety, Sweetheart.”

Neither of you are meant to broach the subject because crossing the line would imply things. Things like an attraction to your femme appearance, his sexuality validated meant your identity invalidated and vice versa and it was all so much of a raging headache that neither of you dared to even suggest anything beyond drinking buddies during times of convenience and late night calls.

But Sylus did. At least, is trying to.

“I’m going to bed,” you announce abruptly before running away to lock yourself in the bathroom, sliding down the door and struggling to get your spinning thoughts in order.

Coward, you think.

Chapter Text

You wake up to frantic knocking on the bathroom door.

“Sweetie?” The uncharacteristic panic in Sylus’s voice immediately shoots adrenaline through you and you jolt upright in shock when you are suddenly enveloped by freezing water. The bathtub is overflowing and spilling out icy water onto the flooded tiles. When did you get in the bath? How long has it been running?

“Sweetie, open the door.” Fury coloured his voice now and you’re not certain given the events of what happened last night whether that fury would finally be turned on you. Would Sylus be the kind of man to change into someone else when rejected?

“Sylus,” you croak out and despite the flooding water, you feel utterly dehydrated. You use what strength you have left to kick the faucet off to at least stop the deafening rush of water. “I’m okay, ‘m awake.”

“Open the door,” his voice is so close, as if his head were pressing against the wooden door and reverberating through it. “Please.”

“Fuck, wait,” Your sopping wet clothes weigh you down and hold you tightly down in the depth of the bathtub, so you wriggle your way out of your cardigan and peel the rest of yourself gingerly out of the waters.

When you finally manage to open the door, the Sylus you face is unlike any Sylus you’ve met before. His eyebrows are furrowed, pain is so blatantly etched upon his features, and it’s something he’s always carefully kept hidden from you in the time you’ve known each other.

He pulls you into a crushing embrace and you blink in confusion at what on earth was going on through this man’s head.

“Sylus, you’ll get wet,” you protest meekly under his heavy weight, but his warmth seeped into you wonderfully. You have never been particularly physical with one another, not the way you and Rafayel had grown over the years, and a part of you understands that it was a conscious choice on Sylus’s end.

Sylus pulls away too quickly, his head deliberately kept turned away from you. “Zayne will be over soon. I used your phone to message him, he’ll watch over you today.”

“What? Why?” You catch his wrist and notice his balled up fists. “Why are you talking like you’re leaving?”

“For both our sakes, I should go.” Sylus gingerly extracts his hand from yours, but not before tenderly bringing your hand to his lips and ghosting a kiss across your knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

“Wh-“ You’re interrupted by knocking at the door. When you turn back to stop Sylus, a cloud of red and black wisps lie in his wake, with Sylus nowhere to be seen.

You have to give Zayne some credit for how normal he acts with you. In fact, if you didn’t know any better, you might not know anything had transpired between you two at all. Though his usual nagging was a wash of cold after spending so much time with Sylus, you sit and tolerate his hovering for the majority of the morning. Zayne makes himself irritatingly at home in your space and cooks up a far-too healthy looking English breakfast, your favourite dish back when you were a girl. A lifetime ago, now.

“Why am I being babysat like I’m on some suicide watch?” You finally snap into the suffocating silence that stretches on for a bit too long.

Zayne stares at you as if you were asking something as obvious as the colour of the sky. He’s clearly uncertain what kind of response you’re looking for, so he slowly spells it out for you. “Because you are.”

“The hell do you mean?” You scoff around a mouthful of scrambled egg. Zayne clung so desperately to your past together that he still seasoned the food the exact same way and it made you vaguely nauseous.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but one quick glance over assured him that you weren’t suffering from memory loss or a concussion. “I’m not certain I understand. Did you mistype your texts about the bathtub?”

“Oh,” you swallowed. “Is that what he-, is that what I said?” And yes, there it was in your texts with Zayne.

Attempt.

“No, that is not what happened- I was just,”

Drowning.

“-I was drunk and needed to cool off. I must have been left running. I swear.”

“It’s okay,” Zayne’s cool touch against your trembling fists makes you jump. “Shh, it’s alright.” It wasn’t his touch you wanted at all. You needed to clear things up with Sylus. Quickly.

“Please get out.” Your shaking fingers try to formulate a coherent text message to him,

‘It’s a misunderstanding. I didn’t try anything. Please come back.’

But it doesn’t send.

“You know I can’t do that.” Zayne says, like a gentleman, and it makes you feel so, so small.

‘Sylus, please come back.’

It doesn’t deliver.

Losing Sylus feels like losing a limb. It’s as though you’re scrambling to function normally again without the support of that extra tendon, bone, cartilage. Whatever his thought process was, it seemed to link together all the worst case scenarios, and triggered something in him that he needed space to deal with. The adult thing to do would be to just communicate this to you instead of ghosting, but your judgement wouldn’t change the reality anyway.

You spend a lot of time thinking about what went wrong the next day. Rafayel hears you out over your favourite takeaway, bitches over the parmesan fries, and you both try to drink your sorrows away. Work calls the next day, and life goes on.

Being the first at anything is hard. In the sense that with centuries of life before your own, it is near impossible to be the first to do anything. This isn’t meant to dismiss, but to reassure those who are taking first steps.

The first time this ideology is brought up in the private confines of your therapy room, it doesn’t quite stick. It does, however, finally reach you when you are trekking through some distant snowcapped mountains hunting down another area of reported irregular fluctuation.

Despite how remote the trail is, you follow in the footsteps of those who came before. You fit into the same mold that they had carved and created and it all continues and shall continue cyclically. The path in the fresh powdered snow is not yours to create anymore, for that burden has been relieved.

And you are relieved, for it finally does not diminish—it comforts you, who treads the journey anew.

Then, there are two truths that come to light. One, you are not the first, nor the last transgender person to experience all of these experiences. Two, Sylus must have known someone like you before, and based on recent events, it must have left some scars.

Your footsteps stop in their tracks, fitting perfectly in the icy prints made by those who came before you.

“Hey!” Your hunter partner calls back out to you. “We need to keep moving, stay close!”

Ida, she was called, expertly tends to the log fire that evening while you sit in a daze. The thin plastic of your emergency blankets crackle with the breeze that passes through the tattered foundation of the cabin. At least you found some sort of shelter, you’d agreed. You’ll be able to call for a helicopter back once you find service again, but both decide to play it safe for the night.

Unlike Xavier, Ida blends in unassumingly. Arguably something that you’ve started to excel at since abandoning your usual makeup routine, too. The military precision with which she fought wanderers was impressive, and there was something about her authoritative demeanor that some colleagues resented.

It was because of this, and the occasional mention of her brother’s sexuality being an issue for their grandparents in the past, that you knew she would understand. So when Ida asks you what is on your mind, you tell her.

“So you think this man has a thing for trans men?” Ida asks bluntly, never one to mince her words.

“Well, no, I think he maybe knows one very intimately.”

“Two, including you, then?”

“Two including me,” you nod. Then abruptly the words escape you. “Sorry what did you say?”

Ida’s head tilts to the side, she is softer now. Sisterly. “Was I wrong?”

No, you finally shake your head, because Ida had quickly become a close confidant due to similar ways you view the world and the same principles you shared. There was no reason to conceal it now that it had slipped out so explicitly.

“Sorry, I’ve never said this out loud to anyone else before. It’s… strange.”

Nothing changes after that revelation and looking back, you aren’t sure if you are or are not disappointed by that fact. The conversation makes its way back to Sylus and Ida makes you feel a little more seen in a blind world.

Of all possibilities, it’s Mephisto who makes the first move.

“Coward,” you can’t help smile into its familiar mechanical eyes. “Let me meet you, I think there’s a lot we need to talk about.”

Chapter Text

Crows have often been regarded as an omen. And for you, Mephisto precedes Sylus’s arrival. Every time. Months of subconscious rewiring results in crows becoming as exciting to spot as an elusive hummingbird. But Sylus is the opposite of a delicate hummingbird—was what you always believed.

Recent events have led you to understand more about him than you’d initially assumed. You realise that even Sylus falters when it comes to the uncomfortable topics that he keeps tucked away out of reach. You realise that even someone of his stature can scatter, quiet as a mouse, when faced with their fears. You realise that much like yourself, Sylus is just human. And Mephisto is just his mobile eye to shyly hide behind.

When you get off of work in the wee hours of the morning, Sylus is stood patiently outside your headquarters, waiting for you.

“You came,” you exhale against his worn leather jacket in a rare embrace.

“Of course I would,” he squeezes back tightly. “I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled in your hair, solemn with shame.

“It’s okay.”

And it really, mostly is. The big conversations did not determine whether you did or did not care for Sylus. That was unconditional. And while there were things that needed clarification, it would be okay so long as he was there to talk.

This part of Linkon was deceptively quiet at midnight. Too corporate to be a home to anyone, the only people who still lingered about were the straggler overtime worker and drunk.

Your voice is so soft when you say, “Just, not again. Okay?”

“Not again. I promise.”

Sylus holds you so tenderly and you are filled to brim with emotion that when you think it’s going to bubble to the top and spill over and out onto the concrete earth, Sylus holds you together. The two of you stand embracing for a long time, you think. But neither of you cares for time continuing to flow past you.

Sylus doesn’t let you go after that. His hand fiddles with yours idly, playfully, anxiously as he drives the both of you further and further away from the city and towards the coast. An evening drive, he suggested.

Days apart were hours upon hours of life lived without one another, and there was nothing that could stop the streaming conversation between you. His mind fascinates you, and your interpretation of the world enchants him.

What did love look like? You often asked yourself. You tell him these thoughts now. You tell him how you wondered if it was chivalry and roses, or shouting matches and power play. You ask him if love was really universal, if it was the same between man and woman, man and man?

You don’t have the answers and neither does Sylus. But when you glance over at his silhouetted profile, eyes focused on the road ahead, you think you’d like to wake up to Sylus snoring softly beside you in bed, effortlessly looking as though he’d been carved out by Aphrodite herself. You think you’d like to fill out crosswords over coffee together and complain about each other’s morning breath between chaste kisses. You think you’d like to see and be seen by the one person who holds no expectations of who you are or what you ought to be.

You think you’d like that very much. You don’t tell him this, of course.

Maybe in the future, you’re stood hip to hip by your small bathroom mirror. Shaving the same morning stubble and sharing the same aftershave. Maybe your lips become rough and your jaw more defined and Sylus still cups it as delicately as he did when you were a bit softer at the edges. Maybe then or now, the two of you find what your love looks like.

Maybe then and now, you are still you. And that was all there was to it.

Chapter Text

A few years ago now, you’d fallen for a gay man. The kind of gay man that had never considered men beyond their limited understanding of that definition. He was a good guy. Fuck, a really good guy. But ignorance was a bastard.

It was in your early days at the Hunter’s Academy. You hadn’t given him much thought beyond grimacing at the obnoxiously wide smile and loud conversation. Just a guy who boiled himself down to one, singular identity. Reducing himself to a simmer of a personality as though that would make him more palpable.

What made him more palpable was the fluidness of his combat, the watery gaze he’d get after cracking jokes with you, the wet embrace after a particularly grueling day of training. He laughed with stars in his eyes and earthquakes in his limbs. He loved all of his friends recklessly, unabashedly.

You think that you found Orion’s belt in his hazel eyes when he beamed victoriously down at you from where he had you pinned on the training mat. He had successfully used the new maneuver and finally upstaged you–-a fact that made you proud.

And you loved him. Another fact. (Less proud.)

He returned your bouquet of roses with a bouquet of sunflowers, your favourite. He returned your confession with cake which confused the hell out of you.

“Friendship cake,” he clarified ruefully. No hard feelings.

He comes up in an errant dream two years later, the same night that Sylus returns. Except this time, it’s Sylus’s face smiling down at you, Copernicus’s constellation in his ruby red eyes. Mirth soaks his features and you love him.

In your dreams, Sylus is a good guy. A really good guy. But an ignorant bastard. And you foolishly, stupidly want him so much that you give yourself a prerequisite to be loved.

“Please wait for me.” You wanted to say. “If you can wait a few months, I’ll sound like a man. I’ll look like one, too.”

Sylus, not-Sylus, smiles ruefully. The words don’t leave your blurred mouth but he hears them all the same. No hard feelings, right?

You wake with your heart in a vice, knowing that a part of you would still negotiate today. The clock reads 3AM and you are all alone--a fact.

Wrong, apparently. Because the next moment your phone buzzes and the only person you can still receive notifications from while on Do Not Disturb is Sylus. 

Mephisto should be made into a mechanical rat, you think as you pick up the phone.

“Sweetie.” Sylus drawled, voice thick with sleep. As if to punctuate the fact, he yawned quietly. You’ve come to learn that a mid-night nap was not uncommon for him.

“Sylus.” You wield his name like an accusation.

“Oh?” He was amused, you could practically hear how his mouth quirked. “And what did dream me do?”

“Nothing.”

“Really, now?” Can eyebrows make sound? You can clearly hear him raise one of his grey caterpillars.

“I think that was half the problem.” You say after a moment of thoughtful silence.

Sylus is quiet at the revelation.

“Can I see you in the morning? I’ll pick you up and we can get coffee on the way to work.”

It’s 3am--one fact. Sylus woke up from his nap to check in on you--two facts. He cares for you immensely–-three facts. Something akin to pride bubbles in your chest at that.

“Yeah. I… I’d really like that.”

Chapter Text

“Hmm… iced caramel macchiato?” You decide. The punishing dieting was over and done with, you’ve gone back to your favourite tastes since starting therapy.

“Sounds delicious.” You can tell Sylus is still so proud of your progress, you can see it in the crinkle of his crows feet. For the umpteenth time, you wonder what you did to deserve someone so unconditionally supportive. Not that Grandma and Caleb hadn’t been, but they never had the chance to with something that mattered to you like this. His support felt unwarranted most of the time, unreasonable because you were just you. Sylus was… Sylus. 

He hands his card to the barista. “I’ll take the same as him.” 
Your heart soars against the confines of your binder.

When you take a seat with the tray of coffees, the warm sunrise slices through the horizon and blinds a tall Sylus.

“Ow.” He says, rapidly blinking those dilated gems of eyes.

You raise your hand to block the light for a second so his eyes can adjust. Poor, nocturnal thing. “Better?”

“Mhm.” And those ruby reds are back on you.

Recently, Sylus has developed a new expression, you think. It usually appears when you return the chivalry that he generously gives and gives to the world. Like when you take his hand and gently remind him ‘be careful the floor is slippery’, or when you feed him a bite of your sashimi with your chopsticks mouthing ‘ahh’ to him. It’s a helplessly cute expression, just a flicker of something like ‘am I allowed to accept this?’. It’s so precious that you automatically start doing more and more acts of service for him just so you can see it again.

“Cute.” You remark casually, then smile at his surprised expression.

He clears his throat eventually. Neither of you acknowledge the fact that your flirtatious banter was missing its banter and possibly counted as just genuine flirting. Chalk it up to it being 7 in the morning or something.

“So your dreams,” he broaches casually, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

There’s sticky caramel all over your fingers from where the barista had haphazardly drizzled it. “Hmm… it’s not anything deep. It was just my subconscious mixing stuff up. You know, like those dreams where you’re a human dragon or something, but everything else is normal?”

A grey caterpillar eyebrow raises with curiosity. “Dragon?”

“Just an example. I mean mixing up people and experiences from your memories.”

There’s an unreadable expression on Sylus’s face and you can tell he’s probably about to teasingly ask ‘do you have memories of being a human dragon,’ so you sigh. You’re not doing a great job of explaining yourself by tiptoeing around the subject.

“Basically just a random dream that had a shred of truth to it.” You clarify.

He sips thoughtfully. “Which was?”

You feel like you know the answer when you ask Sylus, “Have you ever begged someone to love you?”

He smiles ruefully, just like in the dream. It’s a depressing look on such a handsome face. “I can’t say that I have.”

‘I didn’t think so’ sounds so poorly of you to say, so you don’t say it. It’s not layered, you just feel as though Sylus knows his worth. He knows when to leave, which was something you both envied and loved about him. “I did once. And I did in my dream, and the realisation that I still might do it again was… disappointing.”

“I see.” Sylus takes your hand and starts wiping off the sticky caramel with a wet wipe. He takes his time and you both watch silently for a moment. “I don’t want you to do that again, either.”

You love the way Sylus speaks. Sometimes direct as a boulder, sometimes as cryptic as code. But whether it was your mutual understanding that all things came from a good place, you could hear the affection in his statement. You could hear how he believed you worthy of better than that, his reprimanding that you should not lower yourself like that.

“Thank you, Sylus.” You smile.

You wonder what defines a relationship from friendship. Both you and Sylus can only think of one defining feature.

And it isn’t that you don’t want to be intimate with Sylus. It’s that right now, you don’t want to be intimate with anyone. Not even your own hands are welcome to touch and explore. Until the irritation builds irrationally and you know you need to release for your mental wellbeing. Only then do you touch yourself until you come quietly in the dark with shame.

More time passes. Together with Ida, Tara and Rafayel, you form a small community where you can exist as yourself. Sometimes Sylus even joins for drinks, dawning an alias and elaborate backstory. With a large beer tower for the whole table to share, there’s no gender, no expectations, just your friends and love.

You can see a softness in Sylus’s eyes in those moments, the kind that used to exist exclusively with you. He begins to tentatively share it with the world. You like those times the most, you decide.

The seasons continue to change, Caleb and Grandma are still gone, and there isn’t much left to lose. Maybe your job. You find that everything feels a lot more manageable now that you have people who understand all of you.

Suddenly, it’s a risk you’re willing to take.

The immediate effects of testosterone is dizzying happiness, a smile doesn’t leave your face all week. You start microdosing to ease into it, fully prepared to stop if it doesn’t sit right with you. But it sits so fucking right with you.

Though it isn’t always sunshine and smooth sailing—in fact, it rarely ever is—it is infinitely better than what could have been.

There is a thrumming anger constantly filling you that replaces the void of depression. Between inhaling food at every meal, snapping at any inconvenience, you try to give yourself the same grace you would have given your teenage self. Because that’s essentially what it is; puberty. 

And between the raging hormones intensifying every experience ever, there is the raging longing and desperation to touch and be touched. There are times where you glance over at Sylus and he can see in the heated look in your eyes that you’re undressing him and taking him right then and there. But neither of you make a move toward one another. His dilated eyes mirror your desire, but he keeps his distance, knowing his place.

After an impromptu stay, Sylus steps out of your shower one night, smelling of your products. He’d finished a job in the area and the blood would have ruined his car’s leather interior. Both of you preferred that he just come over and stay the night. But you can’t believe your cheap drugstore shampoo actually touched his gorgeous, expensive silky hair.

Sylus opens his mouth with a click and curiously asks, “Why do you still use women’s products?”

It’s not like you hadn’t considered swapping. But every time you sampled them in store, your nose scrunched at the assaulting musk scent and too-harsh products. Your skin would take years of thickening up on testosterone before you would consider some acid like three-in-one soap.

“Because women’s products are just better,” you grin like the Cheshire cat and Sylus scoffs teasingly.

“Not if you actually invested in better products, Sweetheart.”

“Please do not buy me gross Armani shampoo.”

Sylus scoffs but drops it, obviously deeming that brand too cheap for his taste. He flops next to you on the sofa and sneaks a sip of your evening tea. He wasn’t picky about the quality of those products, at least.

Your ten step bedroom routine becomes an eleven step one with testosterone application and Sylus patiently waits up reading in bed. You’d discovered a few visits before that you both shared the same view on cuddling; it was convenient, beneficial, and platonic. So Sylus shares the bed with you when he stays over… though no one else needs to know that.

He’s recently started using reading glasses—the old fart, you joked—and you just know you’re the only person to have ever seen him like this. Domestic. Soft. Perceptive like a curious owl, even more so when he angles his head to observe the terrifying red clay face mask you’ve donned.

“What creature did you skin this time?” He quips over his dense sociopolitical text that you’d never willingly touch with a toe. You’ve come to learn that Sylus’s zoomies before bed were always in the form of banter. You give Sylus a piece of your fucking mind by slamming your full weight on the bed WWE style and tackling him.

When Sylus wins by pinning you down face first in your pillow, he speaks through breaths, “You’re definitely getting stronger. That took longer than usual.”

You ignore the way his breathiness shoots through you like a jolt of electricity, and ignore what could only be Sylus’s erection against your hip. Fuck.

Puberty, you’re reminded. But what was Sylus’s excuse?

When you’ve both calmed down and ignored the elephant in the room long enough, you wrap around each other naturally.

Sylus’s hair fans out starkly against his black silk pillowcase. That had been a non-negotiable and not a toothbrush? “Bring some toiletries next time.” You murmur before you doze off in his arms.

Chapter Text

Throughout the year and a half that you’ve been with Sylus, not once does he make you wonder whether there is someone else. That is, until he cancels plans on you.

It’s uncharacteristic of Sylus to change plans, much less cancel them. It’s unusual, but it’s fine. As much as he tries not to show it, Sylus is human too. But it gets even stranger when he sounds panicked over the phone—Sylus doesn’t panic.

You can’t help but be reminded of how Sylus had become an elusive hummingbird before, when he was faced with the fear of losing you. But what was he afraid of this time?

“Hey, it’s fine. The cafe will still be there tomorrow. Work can be urgent, I get it.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not work, I mean.” He says vaguely, clipped. “I forgot that I had plans with… someone else.”

You’re impressed with how put together you sound when you say, “Okay. Well, let me know if you need me,” and hang up.

You go about the rest of your day with a distant detachment. It’s a boring Saturday but there are chores that need to be done. With the raging hormones, you’ve been plagued by the constant itch of sexual desire and you contemplate your drawer of toys to pass the time. It’s… enjoyable now, not some dreaded chore like before.

That evening, an unexpected knock comes at your door. On your doorstep, Sylus’s tall frame is hunched, his eyes are rimmed red. He looks utterly wrung out and wrong and the air rushes out of you at the sight. Gone is any simmering jealousy and rejection, you are overwhelmed with the desire to protect this man. “Come in.”

You guide Sylus straight into the bed and wrap around him like a koala to a eucalyptus tree. Against your chest, he doesn’t cry, but his breath hitches like he’s damn near to it. His silver hair is as silky as you imaged it to be. You stroke and caress where you can until he’s a relaxed puddle on top of you.

“We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.” You say quietly, when his breaths have evened out.

Sylus’s arms squeeze around your waist in acknowledgement. Then he promises, “Eventually. Just not today.”

You can’t resist the urge to kiss the crown of his head. “Okay.”

Sylus tenses in surprise.
Then, you feel a replying kiss against your ribs.

Often times, other people make it worse. Other people have to learn to navigate the tides; when ‘he’s are expected and ‘she’s might be appropriate for your safety. Other people think they’re entitled to have an opinion on it.

Sylus doesn’t trip up, until he inevitably does. He’s human but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you think he cares less about you.

When he slips up and calls you “she” while FaceTiming Rafayel, you feel your heart crack painfully. His expression falters when he catches your watery smile from the corner of his eye and realizes his mistake.

You try not to take it personally. But you’ve grown more hair and muscle. You’ve even passed androgynous enough once or twice to confuse a waiter. Yet he still. Said that.

“I don’t know where that came from.” He apologizes afterwards. He frowns, his eyes are a lifetime away.

It’s not perfect. But Sylus succeeds the most and doesn’t make a fuss in the process. Not the way Tara sometimes trips over herself apologizing and creates a whole spectacle over it. Sometimes, that might be worse. No, you think, that was definitely worse.

And you’d be lying if you said things hadn’t changed between you and Sylus. While you’ve been an open book for the two years that you’ve known each other, there are still some secrets that Sylus harbours. It feels like the more comfortable you grow in your own skin, the more you start to take notice of everyone else’s.

You know he’s entitled to privacy. But navigating around this unknown blockage is frustrating, particularly when it has caused Sylus to panic twice now. Particularly when it feels like it’s personal.

What’s changed is that you are running out of patience. How can you help when you don’t know what is going on?

You sigh through the frustration but continue to wait.

The next time Sylus stays over (which he does more and more frequently these days), he brings toiletries to leave at your place.
Maybe it was the overwhelming scent of him or maybe it was testosterone or maybe your cycle was still fucking with you, but you have… dreams. You writhe and wriggle yourself awake, feeling disappointed at the failed climax of your dream self. Damn.

One blink and you know Sylus is awake. And very alert. …Erect, even.

You gulp. It is deafening in the shrouded morning shadows.

“Yes, Sweetie?” Sylus finally asks and you realise you’ve crawled up on all fours to stare down at him. 

Holy fuck he looks so-?

A frustrated groan escapes you as you collapse next to him, careful not to crush any parts of him. Your hand doesn’t let go from where it’s desperately knotted in his pajama shirt.

“Darling,” Sylus calls again. He shifts beside you and you want, you want and you want.

You whimper sadly.

Sylus burrows his head under and twists awkwardly until his head pops out from under your chin and you are forced to look down at him. He’s like a persistent cat sometimes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

What’s wrong was the injustice. The cruelty that befalls the world every day. The devastating knowledge that you do not have a penis to fuck this man like you want to. 

“God is unfair.” You say, oozing with drama, depression, arousal.

Sylus chuckles like deep amber and licks his lip and you can feel something in your pants twitch in response. Holy shit?

“Holy shit.” You whisper.

“Can I help?” He whispers back. Ruby eyes nearly black with arousal. “I can do anything. Nothing. Whatever you need.”

You can’t believe it’s happening. The line is being crossed. It feels both effortless and terrifying. It feels like it’s a completely natural progression of events but also suicide.

“Um- Okay. Yeah.” You blink rapidly, trying to clear the terror from your eyes. The terror of not knowing where to start or how to say what you know you don’t want.

“You can use me. However you need.” Sylus says, caressing your cheek. “I enjoy that.” Jesus Christ you need to talk to him about that later but the idea of it makes you choke on a moan.

“Sylus?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t… touch me. Okay?”

“Okay. I won’t.” He says earnestly, and keeps his hands obediently by his sides.

You reach a shaky hand under his chin. You’re trembling with arousal. A part of you wants to squeeze his throat and see his response; maybe he’d struggle a little. A larger part of you wants to see his face in ecstasy as he falls apart. Maybe there’s something wrong with you because you’ve never really wanted to be dominant like this before. But the idea of using Sylus… you could definitely work with that. You get to set the pace, draw the lines; your pleasure is entirely in your control.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” You inform him.

“I look forward to-mmph.”

Sylus’s lips are firm, chapped and pliant. He takes the first two pecks quietly before kissing back on the third. Swiping his tongue against your lips on the fourth. Licking you open on the fifth. Your legs part slightly in response. Your hands have crawled to the nape of his neck and dig crescents into his clothed hip. Sylus obediently keeps his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides.

“Sylus, you’re so,” a kiss, “fucking cute.” He tries to protest against your lips at that, you can feel him frown. As if he could deny the cute accusations.

More. Your hand slides further and further down and finds his tented erection easily. Sylus inhales sharply through his nose and your teeth clash messily.

He groans when you palm him through his thin pyjamas. He’s so incredibly hard that it barely moves with your gentle stroking. Your eyes flicker down and see a growing damp spot where his precum leaks into the dark cotton.

“That’s-,” You break the kiss, panting. “Sylus, you’re so wet.” You don’t know where this is coming from or how it keeps tumbling past your lips but your brain is hazy with arousal and spouting whatever comes to mind.

“Enjoying yourself?” Sylus smirks, but the visible vein bulging on his temple weakens the delivery.

“Yes.” You breathe, and you mean it. Sylus’s eyes widen and his cock twitches in your hand when he realises that yes, you really enjoy this.

You abandon your post at his lips and wriggle down until your mouth is hovering above the wet spot of his pants. “Is this okay?”

There’s a twinkle in his eye when he replies with: “I’m not sure what ‘this’ is referring to, Sweetie.”

So you show him exactly what you mean by dipping down and sucking at the precum stain, enveloping the head of his cock in the heat of your mouth through the fabric.

“Hah-” Sylus’s hand shoots up as if about to cover his mouth. And stifle those sounds? That won’t do.

“Sylus.” You drawl like a warning. “I’m going to have to pin down your hands if you don’t stay still.”

The bastard smirks down at you, because of course he’d be into that, and raises his hands languidly above his head with a stretch. “Oops.”

You can’t help but laugh at how childish the gesture is. At how endearing he is. At how wonderful it is that you can do this. With him.

“I can do that.” You beam down at him, excited to know you’re doing something he specifically enjoys. You straddle his thigh and reach up to gently guide one hand, two hands back to his sides. Gently at first, then pressing firmly down on his wrists. “Stay.”

“Am I a dog?” Sylus laughs airily then, shaking beneath you, his thigh vibrates against you with the movement.

You gasp at the startling jolt of pleasure.
Sylus’s eyes darken.

“I won’t move.” He promises explicitly. “But my offer stands. Use what you need.”

You might’ve hesitated out of the social nicety of it, or maybe the embarrassment of it, but Sylus’s thigh is warm and hard and has the perfect curve. You barely even register what he says before you’re grinding down and rocking against his thigh, chasing for more friction. 

It’s good, Sylus is groaning at the sensation of you taking your pleasure from him. It’s good, your hands pin Sylus down, you feel powerful. It’s good, you’re panting quietly, but your mouth feels so, so lonely.

“Sylus-” You whine, unable to stop your hips from moving.

Ever the attentive man, Sylus asks, “What do you need?”

“Pass the pillow.” You readjust, crawling between Sylus’s legs.

You straddle your pillow, then reach your fingers up to intertwine Sylus’s hands in a sweeter, kinder hold. Finally, you lower your head and fill your mouth with Sylus’s clothed cock.

It’s too soon when Sylus tenses and comes in his pants with a low, rumbling groan, and you can’t help tonguing at the dampness until he’s writhing away from the oversensitivity.

“Come here.” Sylus requests once his breath has evened out. He has his arms outstretched for you, and you can’t help the dread that rises. 

You said you didn’t want to be touched.

Sensing your hesitation, Sylus shakes his head. “Just a hug. Promise.”

You like Sylus asking for what he wants, you realise. It’s not often that he asks for things, nor could you provide him with much more than he already has. But this? This you could do.

You climb up Sylus and wrap around him, tucking your face in the crook of his neck comfortingly. It’s one of your favourite spots in the whole world.

“You’re a wonder.” Sylus murmurs against your hair, his arms are a reassuring weight on your back. “And you’ll tell me if you need anything.” He says it like a statement rather a question.

“I will.” You promise.

Sylus doesn’t make a fuss when you ask him for some privacy to take care of yourself. He just kisses you one more time, maybe one more. Just one more?

“Okay that’s enough, now get out.” You kick him away through peals of laughter. He’s a marvelous sight to watch as he goes. His broad shoulders practically fill the entire doorway and he turns to give you a wink before shutting the door.

Chapter Text

Not much changes after the line has been crossed. There’s more hand holding than usual and you kiss once chastely, but then things fade back to normal. Sometimes you wonder if it even happened.

When you next meet the gang for celebratory Friday night drinks, Sylus tags along. Ida rolls herself another cigarette while Rafayel orders a large margarita pitcher for the table. Tara has the smallest bladder of the group and has already disappeared into the bathroom for the third time that evening.

“That kind of night, huh?” You grin at Rafayel. Then turn to Sylus. “You want some?”

“Let me try?” He sips at the sweet frozen slush through your straw, still managing to be elegant despite having to lean over to drink from your hand. He wrinkles his nose then shakes his head, nursing his beer. “Thanks, Sweetie. But I’ll stick to this for now.”

Rafayel glances between you two, nodding as he pieces something together. You question him with a confused smile.

“Congrats.” Rafayel says privately when Ida steps out to smoke and Sylus has to answer a call.

“We’re. We’re not really. Uh.” You frown at your margarita accusatorily as though it had a hand in the situation. “I’m not sure what we are.”

Rafayel doesn’t pry, perhaps aware of how insensitive the question ‘did you have sex yet?’ would be. “Something’s changed, though, I can tell that much. I mean, what’s stopping you from asking for what you want?”

“...I don’t really know what I want?”

Rafayel barks out a laugh, but his amusement is tinged bitter. You wonder if he knows something you don’t. “That’s stupid. Sorry, but I know you. You can be so stuck in that brain of yours sometimes that it just gets in the way. Always thinking and thinking and going in circles.”

“Rafayel, come on-“

“Do you know what desires are?” He asks deadpan.

Pfft. “Of course I know what desire is-?“

“Then why is it so hard? Like, holy shit it’s almost been what? A year and a half? Why do you stop yourself from going with what feels right?”

It’s a good question. Rafayel arguably knows you best and he’s had his bets on Sylus since that first conversation. But he’s also two drinks ahead of you and equally a lightweight and well, his bluntness can be a bit of a slap in the face sometimes.

“You know what I always say--and I literally don’t know how else to get through to you--You. Deserve. Love. Too.” Rafayel lowers his voice as he notices Ida and Sylus coming back. “You should talk to him.”

You’re not really sure what you would talk about, but you promise him. “Okay.”

It’s safer for Sylus to stay over rather than risk a long drive home after a few drinks, even if it’s been a few hours. You both agree as if that’s the reason he should stay over. As though you still need an excuse to share each other’s company.

But it’s the first time Sylus is staying over since... last time. And there’s something tense that hovers above you that tastes a lot like fear and smells like expectations.

You don’t like expectations very much.

And maybe this is your hummingbird moment, where you shut down and can’t tell Sylus what’s going on. Sylus, who has proved himself a safe person to talk to, time and time again. Sylus, who has always respected your decisions and supported your rights and wrongs; it was a disservice to withhold it from him, you know.

But Sylus hasn’t told you his secrets. And there’s a growing part of you that is wounded by that fact. Defensive, too.

“Is everything alright, Sweetie?” Sylus asks while you wait for the train on the platform together. You like taking it home after drinking, and the summer air was cool. Much better than sitting in a stuffy taxi.

“Yeah. Just thinking about stuff.” You reply vaguely, bumping your shoulder to his arm like a cat making its presence known.

Sylus knows when and when to not push you by now. He hums thoughtfully and then reaches down to interlace your fingers with his. As if to say, 'I am here when you are ready'.

You love him.

“You said you have a long weekend next week, right?” He asks once you’ve settled into some seats on the train.

“Mhmm.”

“Could you keep two days free?” Sylus smiles with fondness and mischief.

You eye him suspiciously. 

Chapter Text

The majority of your time spent together is in Linkon.

Sure, occasionally, you’d visit the N109 zone for business and pop by for a coffee and catch up with Sylus, but it remained a rare enough occurrence that your relationship with Sylus often felt like it existed within the bubble of Linkon.

So when Sylus says, “I want to take you on a trip,” your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. But you agree without complaint.

Two full days of your time, and a swimsuit—'if you'd prefer' (whatever that meant)—is about all the information Sylus gives you before picking you up the following weekend.

"If you wouldn't mind taking the shortcut now," Sylus instructs Kieran, who cheerily waves back at you from behind the wheel. Nowadays, Sylus hardly ever sacrifices your shared privacy in favour of having a chauffeur, so you shoot him a suspicious glance.

"It is a bit of an illegal path, sweetie. So if you wish to close your eyes, I won't be offended," he says, as though that was what you were questioning at all.

"That's not—…" You trail off with an exasperated sigh when he continues to smile knowingly at you. Annoying bastard.

Twenty minutes and a very illegal shortcut later, you arrive at Linkon airport. It's as crowded as one might expect the airport to be during a long weekend in China.

Pulling into the drop-off, dozens of questions spring to mind: is Sylus not at risk travelling through a major airport, being the wanted criminal he is? Doesn't he have a private helicopter? Do you even have your passport with you?

Sylus hands you your passport. Well, that was one thing sorted.

You settle elegantly on: "What the hell?"

"Charming," he says sarcastically, and herds you into the terminal.

Security and immigration go so smoothly that you wouldn't be surprised if some of the officers along the way had already been bought out. Even once you've settled into a coffee shop inside of international departures, drink in hand, your nose hasn't stopped scrunching at the sheer fishiness of it all.

"Macau." You try.

"No."

"Hong Kong!"

"No."

"Vietnam."

"No," he sighs and sets his cappuccino down.

"…Laos?"

"You can stop guessing, sweetie."

"Why?" Why this?

Why do you go so far for me?

Why do you continue to prove yourself to be everything I've ever wanted, but I can't let myself accept any of it?

Your knuckles go white around the handle of the mug, head dipping in shame.

Eyes blinded with tears and the stark realisation that while transitioning can seemingly change everything about you, it couldn't change you.

"Is it so hard to believe that I want to do something nice for you?" Sylus says quietly, with an open sort of honesty that you simply aren't expecting.

How can you bring yourself to look up to meet him?

Ever since that night, things have been different. As much as you have refused to acknowledge it, it has undeniably changed things between the two of you. Brutally, you think you both know that it has mostly changed something about you.

Thus, by proxy, it has changed your relationship. And Sylus is intelligent; it is something you love about him. His sociopolitical texts are heavy enough to bench press, his keen eye never misses a wilted flower in the bouquets he shares—never gives, always shares—with you.

"…Why?"

He doesn't answer.

His hands are larger than yours—will likely always be, even later into your old age—and spindly where they wrap around your hands, to loosen your now-painful grip on the mug. He doesn't answer, and you wonder if it's because you shouldn't be asking.

More likely, it's because you both know you aren't prepared for the answer yet.

"Japan?" You read the sign of the departure gate you're boarding at.

He smiles and gives a nod. "Yes," he finally reveals. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his hand moving towards you, as if to ruffle your hair, but he stops himself.

"Hokkaido," you clarify with a swallow. Why did he stop himself?

"Yes. It should be just a bit cooler than here, but I've packed some clothes for you in case you get cold." He makes no move toward you again, as if it were a one-off mistake he's now rectified. Instead, he pulls out his passport and leads you towards the first-class priority lane.

Oh, of course, it's first-class. Your hand flexes by your side, longing to touch and hold.

But you cannot, for the life of you, reach out.

And suddenly you're not in the line to board anymore; you're fourteen in your childhood bathroom. Grandma is making your favourite braised pork, and you can smell it wafting up the staircase and through the halls because of how long it's been simmering on low. Caleb is home less and less, busy with university applications—and you don't know what is wrong with you, but there has to be something wrong with you because otherwise it just means it's just you. And something that is wrong.

There's blood on your hands, on your chest, between your legs. The glint of silver. It reclaims something about you, your skin, that you've lost to the inevitable turn of puberty. You contemplate its touch coldly, steely-eyed to steel.

Friends and family alike remain unaware of how each shower sends you spiralling, each sports class divided by gender makes you feel like you're losing your mind, each day that you are still you feels like a detonating minefield.

They're all there: Grandma and Caleb and the school counsellor and your favourite geography teacher. And yet you cannot, for the life of you, reach out.

"Sweetie?" Sylus blinks at you through the partition of the first-class seats. You come back to awareness like a ghost settling into a new body to haunt. And sometimes? Your attachment to your body feels no better than just that: a haunted, cursed thing.

You numbly wonder if Sylus and you ever manage to fix things, if you ever progress further, would the first thing he sees upon stripping you open be your scars?

Are they still there?

Do you want them to be?

Grandma and Caleb are gone. Your teenage self is dead, killed by your own bloodied hands. The steel in hand replaced by an innocuous little sachet, but it kills her all the same.

Good, you think.

Try to think.

Try to internalise that, yes, this is a good thing.

You turn away. How can you bring yourself to look up and meet him when you've hurt someone so dear to him?

"Sweetheart," Sylus says again, champagne set aside.

But she is still you. Inside you, part of you. Alive and well. The part of you that still cowers for safety in designated women spaces, deliberately dividing yourself by gender. The part of you that mourns the community you came to love first out of necessity.

As though becoming the man you are is the ultimate betrayal in the eyes of feminism. Where did you belong? Where do you belong? Where will you belong?

And when he looks at you so tenderly, is it because he sees her in you? When he reaches out to swipe at the tears on your cheeks, is it because he sees her in you? When he climaxed under your tongue, was it because he saw her in you?

When there is a hollowed-out space in your life for the woman you no longer are—where is the rest of you meant to fit?

You can't kill her, you know this, for she is the vessel you occupy. She is the body you continue to haunt.

Perhaps, in due time, you can learn to live with it. Her. Yourself.

When you finally manage to calm down, blinking through the thick remnants of tears, it's a miracle that Sylus is still sat obediently in his seat. "…Good, keep going," he's guiding you through the motions of breathing, and is shockingly good at it. He pauses, taking in your lucid gaze. "Are you back with me, Sweetie?"

"Yes." You say. Nothing more, not right now at least.

"Good," he decides on again, seemingly… lost for words. His eyes are wary, just the slightest bit red-rimmed, and you feel infinitely more guilty about hurting him than you ever could about destroying yourself. He settles, though, and the hand that takes up the glass of champagne is straining not to tremble. "Good."