Chapter Text
Huey had been staring at himself in the mirror for about thirty minutes now.
He didn’t look different—no, the person he was looking was exactly who it always was. Exactly who he was supposed to be. It was just…Hubert Humperdink Duck.
Same red hat. Same red shirt. Same bright blue eyes. Same worried furrow to his brows that seemed to be permanent. Same everything.
He adjusted his hat. Took it off. Narrowed his eyes. Tilted his head to the right. Tilted his head to the left. Sighed. Put his hat back on.
He looked the same.
…that might be the problem.
Huey Duck hated asking for help. He hated not being able to do or figure out something on his own. It was endlessly more frustrating that the thing he couldn’t figure out was himself.
But, alas, as the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook said—sometimes, you have to ask for help, and that’s okay. And it is! It is okay. …for other people! Not Huey, though—Huey was the helper, and how was he supposed to help himself?
But—he—no, he didn’t need help. He didn’t! Huey did not need help.
…okay, maybe he needed a little bit of guidance. But that was different!
Huey stood in front of the door to the room he shared with his brothers. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open, revealing Dewey, who was lying on the floor with his sketchbook open in front of him, tapping his face with a pencil.
“Hey, Huey,” he greeted, not looking up.
“I—how’d you know it was me?”
“Your footsteps,” he shrugged. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah, I—” he hesitated, wringing his hands anxiously. “I feel—I don’t—I—” he cut himself off, screwing his eyes shut in frustration.
“Huey? Hey, what’s—what’s going on, what’s wrong?”
“Me!” He snapped, balling his hands into fists and hitting himself in the head. “I—I just—I’m wrong! I feel wrong, and I hate how I am, and I don’t know what’s happening!” Tears welled in his eyes, and he felt Dewey grab his hands, gently moving them down.
“Huey—”
“Stop calling me that!” He sobbed. “Please, I—I’m—”
“Okay,” Dewey said softly, and he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to try and rid them of tears, staring into his brother’s charcoal irises. “Okay. Do you…not want to be a boy? Would you rather be a girl, or—or neither, like Lena?”
“I—”
…what do i want?
“I—I think…I think I want to be a girl?”
Dewey nodded. “Okay. Do you have a name idea?”
“…Holly. Call me Holly,”
“Well, Holly,” he grinned. “I could always use another sister,”
And, god, it felt so right.