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He’s 15, the first time he ever wears jammers in the bath. He’s wanted to a while now, for the last two or three years, but really hasn’t had the chance. His parents would question him, his grandmother… probably would raise a brow. But with his parents away in the city and grandmother no longer with the living world, there’s really no one to stop him, no one to disapprove or think of him any differently.
Well… there is Makoto.
Haruka knows he’s probably scarred his friend for life when he walks in to fetch him that first day. After all, he is still only 14, and it’s not as though they share the same anatomy. Before, in the months since his parents left, he’d worn a full suit. So the sudden, unexpected change must have taken Makoto off-guard and the guilt he feels for startling him so badly is almost enough to make this not feel worthwhile.
But… he’s wanted this. Needed it for too long, now, and though it’s distinctly uncomfortable to have his chest exposed, it’s not… wrong. Not as wrong as it is to force himself into a swimsuit that makes it feel as if his skin is crawling, as if he doesn’t belong in it, anymore. Dysphoria, he’ll later learn to call the feeling after tired curiosity spurs him into searching.
Coercing the boy who’d left the room in a flustered mess to come back in, because he really thinks he only has the courage to explain while submersed in the water, he tries to walk his best friend through something of which even he isn’t 100% sure.
It’s been two years since, they’re in their second year of high school, now, and Makoto doesn’t hesitate when he slides open the bathroom’s door with a whine of, “Haruuu, we’re going to be late again.”
Similarly, he doesn’t hesitate in huffing, complaining he’s too noisy while he takes the other’s hand.
---
He hates school, with a low-burning passion most probably misconstrued as being directed toward the fact he’s stuck inside and mostly clothed. And while it’s not wrong to say he prefers being in the pool, the bath, just any sort of water, being kept from it isn’t his main source of agitation.
No, it’s that, at school, he has to accept the body he was born with, tolerate classmates and teachers alike using pronouns that just don’t seem to fit while everyone treats him so much differently than he wants to be treated.
Because Haruka Nanase is female.
Up until puberty, he had been… maybe not fine, but all right with the fact. He just took to assuming he’d be the ‘tomboy’ or ‘butch’-type of girl. But once his body began changing, once there were differences between him and the boys, even other girls, in his class, he didn’t feel right. Everything was just… wrong, uncomfortable. Like a piece of the puzzle that fits in the spot it’s been put, looks like it fits, but doesn’t actually belong there in the least. For the longest time he, once again, merely chalked it up to just not being all that girly or feminine. But the feeling never faded. It only continued, grew stronger. Trips for bras and underwear were nightmares, and he could hardly look at himself in the mirrors whenever his mother took him clothes shopping.
He wondered why this was all so hard. Was it normal, for a girl his age to go through this much trouble? He figured quickly, ‘no, no it’s not’. Because all his classmates twittered excitedly about clothes and shopping and dressing up and looking cute. They’d talk about a new outfit, how much they looked forward to wearing it with its blouse and skirt that weekend. They’d show off new pieces of jewelry or the colors they had painted their nails the night before.
They were happy and comfortable in a way he had never been.
He began to think how… unfair it was. How wrong it was. … How wrong he was. How broken and unnatural.
It’s before he’s really able to spiral too far down, before it’s enough for anyone—even Makoto—to notice when he hears it. A group of girls at lunch who make it a point to read too many comics (they actually might be part of a club, but he isn’t sure) are discussing whatever series it is they’re reading when one piques up about some other title she’d come across. All he catches is a part of the name, of ‘crossdressing’ and that’s all he needs to hear. Because he’s curious, he’s desperate, and after school and club activities, he goes to the library and then the nearest bookstore when it turns out his school doesn’t have it.
He never buys a single volume, lest he raise suspicion, but he does read the whole series. If any other patrons of the store see him tearing up over the black and white pages, they don’t say a thing. But he can’t help it, because he’s never felt so… understood, so not alone for the first time in what feels like way too long.
It reignites a light inside him. Things don’t miraculously get better, or easier. He still struggles, still feels close to a total stranger even in his own body. But, he now knows he’s not the only one, he can’t be, and though very faint and vague there’s hope.
Months later his mother and father leave for what he assumes to be the long-term, and the very next day he hops on the train to the nearest mall. After poking around the young men’s department, he leaves with two shirts, a pair of jeans, and a package of boxers with the cashier doting on what a good little sister he must be. A week later he makes the appointment to have all his hair chopped, donated, and has to argue with the stylist yes, this is what he wants. She still doesn’t cut it short enough, but it’s an improvement in the right direction.
He’s felt better and better every day since, has slowly replaced most of his wardrobe and asks Mrs. Tachibana for a trim anytime hairs start tickling the back of his neck, but school still takes up the majority of his time and he’s forcibly reminded of his sex each morning as he dresses in his fitted blazer, skirt, and knee socks.
A pinch through the fabric at his elbow brings him to attention and he blinks, a glance thrown to the offender and Makoto merely smiles apologetically, tilting his head toward the teacher who had almost reached the ‘N’s in his role call.
“Ms. Haruka Nanase?”
“… Here.”
---
Despite everything else, using the female restrooms doesn’t bother him much, if at all, strangely. As he can’t use a urinal even if he wanted to, he reasons there wouldn’t be much difference as he’d be in a stall either way. He figures maybe the only thing is they probably don’t fix their hair and uniforms in the mirror whilst they gossip about that cute boy in the next classroom over in the men’s restroom.
Washing his hands, drying them, he tosses the paper towel away and exits to find Makoto just where he’d been when he left to use the toilet, leaned up against the opposite wall. But, now, however, he fiddled with his phone. Though Haruka is momentarily distracted by how nice he looks, framed by the windows and light like he is, the content and… fond look on his face catches his attention and holds it longer. He’s seen the expression before, though he doesn’t think on Makoto, but still, it looks… familiar.
Before he has the time to wonder any further, Makoto’s noticed his presence and straightens, beaming as he pockets his phone. “Ready to meet the others for lunch?”
He nods, heads the direction of the roof, and his friend falls into step next to him. His best friend. And, he remembers to remind himself as he slips his hand into the other’s larger one, his boyfriend.
He thinks he shouldn’t care for any of the perks this body has to offer. He should want the trouble it would cause if he had been born the right gender, because it would mean at least he’d be comfortable residing within his own skin.
But, he can’t help being a little glad. It makes him feel guilty, like he’s lying, like he’s cheating, what with the inconsistency between both his mind and his body. Because he’s a boy, he’s a man, dating Makoto should be wrong, it should be immoral and people should object and there should be issues. But… there are none. His identity isn’t reflected physically, and it’s why they can get away with this. It’s how he’s able to hold his boyfriend’s hand whenever he wants, and be more affectionate if he so chooses so than if his chest were flat and there was more in his pants.
The lack of stigmatism, he thinks, is one of the only things he appreciates about how he is now.
---
Rei hands over the papers, neatly stapled together in the corner, after his announcement of wishing for Haruka-senpai to see what he’s assembled for him, and it’s after he’s been silent for a long moment that everyone else falls quiet, too. He blinks at the page, the neat list on it, and takes to flipping through the other couple of sheets.
Brows furrowing, confused more than anything because none of it really makes sense without context, Haruka looks to the youngest of their group with a questioning expression and it takes a minute to remember he isn’t Makoto. “What’s this?”
The look of borderline mortification on Rei’s face morphs, smoothes out and relaxes into surprise. He must have expected a much different response, which only serves to worsen his own lack of understanding because what exactly is he missing, here?
“O-oh! My apologies, Haruka-senpai, it seems I’ve forgotten to label them…” Rei explains, voice falling into a murmur as he seems to ask himself how he could have possibly managed to do that. His attention returns shortly, however, snapping back and it seems some of his earlier sheepishness is returning.
“Ah, so, on the first page is a list of foods that help to raise the levels of testosterone in the body, while the one on the second page are food that lower estrogen, you see. The others are simply a few, quick recipes I managed to find that maximize the benefits of both lists!”
Heat floods his face in a flush, and his gaze ducks back down to the paper clutched between his hands. Because he’s no good talking about this. He never brings it up, doesn’t ever really say much when someone else happens to. It’s hard, discussing the very thing that makes him the most unhappy. He finds it difficult, uncomfortable. He’s never been any good with words, with expressing himself clearly, and it’s even more of a hassle when his emotions raise, everything he wants to say getting stuck in his throat.
But, he scans the lists, this time slower, and as he does he takes note of just how detailed they are. How much time and effort Rei must have put into just these few pages because he… he knows. Maybe he doesn’t understand, at least not completely, but he’s aware of Haruka’s struggles and cares, enough to go to all this trouble.
While still a little embarrassed, a little reluctant to really talk about the subject beyond this, he raises his head with the encouragement of the hand rubbing between his shoulder blades reassuringly to favor Rei with misty eyes and a genuine, “Thank you.”
---
Funnily enough, it’s the very same bespectacled boy who is a quietly sputtering disaster hours later as he always is when it comes to changing for club activities.
When it’d become official Rei was joining them, Makoto sat him down to calmly as possible explain the situation that, although Haruka was technically female, he didn’t consider himself as such and preferred to be treated equally… which included stripping down into their swimwear and redressing after practice. He himself hadn’t been present for the discussion, but Makoto says Rei looked quite stricken before coming to his senses and rationalizing the information just given to him, agreeing he could do his best to act as if nothing was amiss and declaring he fully supported his upperclassman.
Earlier considered, there were no doubts he meant what he said. Haruka figures it’s just a matter of actually growing used to it, and so he and the other two likewise take to paying no attention to Rei’s flustered display.
What he takes to be a scandalized gasp breaks through the not-quite-awkward, not-quite-comfortable lull of the club room filled with nothing but the rustle of clothing and Nagisa is suddenly wailing, “Haru-chan!!”
Skirt fluttering to the ground, swimsuit in-hand, he turns to find the blond’s rapt attention pinned low on his body, lower than his exposed chest, than his navel—
“They’re so cute!!” Nagisa coos in relation to his… underwear. Normally, he prefers boxers. Boxer briefs, even. But, both are bulky, ill-fitting and obvious under the fluttery material of his uniform’s skirt. So, panties it is. And he’s not as adverse to them as he could be, really. They aren’t that bad. But he’s not too good maintaining the upkeep down there, only manages the bare minimum with due thanks to the swim club, and they still serve to remind him of what he is, what he doesn’t have. Who society sees him as, who they assume him to be.
“N-Nagisa-kun…!” Rei stammers, aghast, because there are nude breasts within view, it’s wrong to ogle at such an intimate place, and surely the gesture would make their upperclassman uncomfortable. Those are Haruka’s guesses as to the cause of such a reaction.
“… Makoto picked them out,” he admits, head tilted down as he picked at one of the vivid spring green silk ribbons at his hip. There’s another on the other side, and the garment is topped with a lacy material the same navy the rest of the fabric is dyed in. Polka dots decorate it in white, the same green as the ribbon, and a baby blue.
Just one more reason he’s able to stand wearing them, and a lot of his other pairs, too. Knowing his boyfriend had taken out an afternoon to spend shopping with him, remembering how embarrassed he’d been, how he had squashed the feeling to help and input his opinions in an effort to make Haruka feel better, more comfortable just made it all that much more bearable.
“Ooh, Mako-chan! I’m impressed—they’re super adorable!” Nagisa crows, and Haruka returns to changing into his suit not feeling any less himself as he tends to when such adjectives are applied in reference to him. It’s because Nagisa—along with Makoto—is the exception. He’s made it plainly obvious he believes ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’ transcends sex, gender, even species, and it’s hard to feel put-out when he’s called everyone one or the other at some point in time.
He’s turning back to continue changing, because that’s what Nagisa’s gone and done, when it seems like the blond’s own thoughts interrupt him.
“Wait~,” Nagisa lilts, pivoting fully around to pin Makoto with a playful, falsely innocent smile. “Does this mean Mako-chan’s also responsible for that little black satin and lace number I’ve seen~?”
There’s a choked sputter from behind him, and it’s good timing he’s snapping the straps of his suit on because suddenly he needs a good excuse to make a break for the pool.
---
“Haruuu,” Makoto’s whining after practice, feet carrying them towards home, along the shore, as they contently nurse their first split popsicle of the warm season. They’re almost to the shrine steps they both live off of, finally out of earshot of fellow students, and while he’s fine to just suck and lick at his own flavored ice, occasionally scraping a little off with his teeth, his boyfriend has taken to nibbling small chunks off his own. How he does it, he’ll never quite know. “I thought those were supposed to be just for me?”
“It’s not like I showed them to him,” Haruka grumpily replies in a mumble, shaving a little bit of blue ice off the side of his popsicle so both are even. He may be sullen, but it’s not entirely earnest. Makoto even inadvertently admitting to jealousy or possessiveness was rare—he didn’t want to come off as overbearing, make Haruka worry about upsetting him or limit his relationships. But, he knows his boyfriend well, knows the flickers of emotion do happen and much more often than he lets on.
So, he cherishes these moments, brief as they may be, when Makoto allows himself the luxury of selfishness for once.
“He came over, and I was expecting you.”
Makoto pauses in his chewing of the last piece of popsicle he’d bitten off, blinking, the question written on his face in such clear print it was as though Haruka could practically hear the words. ‘Now when was this?’ It’s when the look shifts to something more thoughtful and concentrated that he decides if the brunet can’t figure it out all on his own he’ll lend a helping hand. But the incident hadn’t really been all that long ago, and it’s one of the only times to date he’d worn Those, The Panties.
“… When we… had that stay-in date, a couple of weeks ago?” Makoto ventures to guess after he’s been silent a short while to assemble the pieces, and Haruka merely nods in confirmation. What he thought to be the light of sunset darkens on his boyfriend’s cheeks, and he suspects he’s recalling the events of that night. He’d accuse him of being a pervert, but that’d be hypocrisy because he secretly is as well.
“Mmh, originally I was just in them, the shirt, and apron,” Haruka explains with a nonchalance he doesn’t quite feel. Planning the ‘outfit’, if it really could have even been considered one, made him anxious enough—actually executing the idea, going through with it, bordered on mortifying and he’s still not sure if he was relieved or disappointed in Nagisa’s interference. “So, when I opened the door…”
“Thinking it was me,” Makoto finishes the thought left incomplete especially for him, lips tugging up into a bashful smile that makes him want to do nothing more than kiss it right off. “God, Haru. I’m so sorry. That’s such a stupid thing to care about… Nagisa’s our friend, and I trust you so much, I shouldn’t have—“
“Yes, you should have,” Haruka’s quick to cut in, tone firm and he switches which hand his dwindling popsicle is in to hold Makoto’s. Because for as often as he does it, as many times as he reassures others that what they feel no matter the emotion or occasion is valid, he is unnecessarily hard on his own moods. “Makoto, you’re human, too. You’re allowed to feel jealous. It’s okay.”
Makoto still looks conflicted, contrite, like he’s really unsure that he deserves the right and before he’s got the chance to open his mouth and counter with the words Haruka knows are on the tip of his tongue, he interjects again.
“Holding it in is just as bad as letting it get out of control.”
The look that crosses his face is something akin to shock, much subtler than that, and though he fails to appear fully convinced he offers a weak smile and squeezes Haruka’s hand with a quiet, ‘thank you’.
---
Makoto’s in higher spirits once they make it to the Tachibana’s doorstep, and though he’s able to switch gears at the drop of a hat he’s genuinely happy when both Ren and Ran come barreling into their legs, not merely constructing a façade for the sake of others as he’s always tended to do. That in itself is enough to catch Haruka’s mouth in a hint of a smile, let alone the ease and affection with which Makoto interacts with his siblings.
“Haru-nee-chan, stay! Play Kart with us, Onii-chan and Ren are no good, and I need a challenge!”
“But you’re no fun to play with! You cheat, and then you throw a fit when you don’t win. Besides, you got it wrong,” Ren gripes, even from partially behind Haruka as he attempts hiding from his now upset twin sister. “Haru’s a nii-chan, not a nee-chan.”
She’s much more headstrong than either of the boys, than even her father, so often the resemblance is difficult to spot, but Haruka thinks it’s very obvious they’re all related when the look of devastation crosses Ran’s little face as the realization of her slip-up hits her. And, much like he had done with her older brother, he stops her worries right in their tracks as he reaches over to scruff a hand through her hair.
“Ran’s fine. I’m not mad,” Haruka addresses both Ren and Makoto, because he knows their older brother tries his hardest to make them understand and doesn’t want him thinking he’s failed when he’s gone far beyond what’s expected of him. With a well-placed smile, the twins having not yet developed Makoto’s pseudo-telepathy and words not quite meaning what they should, he straightens the dark brown strands he’d mussed. “It happens. It’s enough that you care.”
“No!” Ran cries, though there’s only determination on her features as she grabs for his hand and holds it with both of her own. “Just you wait, Haru-nii-chan! I’ll get better, and I’ll never ever mess up again!”
It’s the pure unadulterated conviction drawing her brows together, shining in her sea green eyes that brings his heart to a stutter, tightening his chest in the best of ways. He feels… full, overwhelmed. Haruka doesn’t expect them to understand, to even try. The twins are still young, young enough they haven’t even gone through their own changes. How can he reasonably ask them to get what he’s experiencing when they have yet to really learn what gender means?
But, here they are, trying to do exactly that. They care, and he supposes he understands because the feeling is mutual. He’s been there since day one, was at the hospital with Makoto when they were born and was one of the first people to ever hold them. He may not quite be a constant presence in their lives, not like their parents or Makoto is, but he’s been around just as long, frequently enough to matter. Haruka is just as much of their older brother as they are his younger siblings.
“Now what’s all the ruckus in here about, hm?” Comes when one Mrs. Tachibana rounds the kitchen counter, stepping into the hall with one of the family’s usual porcelain bowls clutched between her hands wrapped partially in a dish towel. Smiling with all the warmth of home, brows raised in question, it’s easy telling where Makoto’s mannerisms hail from as the woman quietly, patiently, continues on drying the dish. She laughs, soft, melodic, and he’s taken back to listening to his grandmother’s wind chimes on her back porch. “Having a party without me?”
Her eldest son offers a chuckle, a ‘I’m home’, Haruka bobs his head to second the notion, and the only other girl in the household piques up that the genkan would be the worst place for a party ever before her mother has time to answer them.
“It would be an awfully small party. And cramped, too.” Mrs. Tachibana considers seriously, solemn almost. It’s only then Makoto finally decides enough is enough and slides both straps of his backpack off his shoulders, jostling him only a little and having the nerve to apologize for it as he sets the bag down with a heavy ‘thmp’ on the step above the entryway. He then moves to sit, working at the laces of his shoes.
“Haru-kun,” Makoto’s mother addresses him as Ran and Ren to find the newest topic to bicker over. She, and Mr. Tachibana too, have just been so understanding and supportive of not just him but he and Makoto’s relationship, as well, that, really. It’s so overwhelming to consider if he gives it too much thought.