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Shockingly enough, it took Monty quite a while to figure out that he was non-binary. He’d like to blame several things for this fact—namely his father, whom he blamed for all things—but the truth was that he was simply too caught up in Not Thinking About It to truly think about it, which was a catch-twenty-two if he’d ever heard one.
He probably should’ve realized it when he was younger, when, rather than Felicity forcing him into tea parties and dress-up games, he was the one forcing her into them. He’d always credited this habit to his other queer identity—he was a flamboyant bisexual if he’d ever seen one, as much of a drama kid as they came—but looking back now, hindsight was a bitch with twenty-twenty vision.
He also probably should’ve realized it when he was auditioning for school productions and told the drama teacher that he would gladly play any of the women’s roles left uncasted. There hadn’t been many, as there was a definite larger number of girls in his theatre classes, but when he had been able to play those parts? Up until now, it was hard for him to put into words just how right it felt to flaunt the arbitrary laws of gender so openly—though, hell, if he was being honest (and he was really trying to), it was still hard. Hard to say, harder to do.
Honestly, he really should’ve realized it when the first thing he did after moving out of his father’s house was let his hair grow out past the “barely suitable scruff” to the length it was now—hanging just past his shoulders on the rare occasion he let it down from his constant ponytail (though those rare occasions were often filled with Percy running nimble fingers through the knots and rubbing gentle circles against his scalp and zounds , he needed to remember to take his hair down more often because those violinist fingers of Percy’s had far better uses than plucking away at strings).
He could list a million moments of when he should’ve realized that he wasn’t a boy—at least, not entirely, but none of them could change the fact that he knew it now .
Now, after making an offhand comment about the importance of affordable androgynous fashion at a pride event and getting encouraging agreement by some passing drag queens and being filled with something he couldn’t quite name but that felt right ; after looking up non-binary identities on a whim and being drawn to the ones that talked about being not quite male or female, being none of the above and both at the same time, being such an inexplicable mix of yes that none of it works; talking to genderqueer people online about that lifelong feeling of not getting why people put such an emphasis on gender in the first place, because it never felt like such a solid and set-in-stone thing .
Now, it’s about whether or not he can work up the nerve to tell Percy—one of the only members of his life that really mattered anymore, because there was no way in hell he would ever live up to his father’s expectations, regardless of how he fought and argued and begged to be let free of the smothering expectations.
It’s complicated feelings that are holding him back, it’s the fact that he’s not quite sure if he wants to use they/them pronouns yet, it’s the fact that he wouldn’t really be changing , and he doesn’t want to risk the only family he has left for something he can live with. He’s lived with being a boy his whole life, it’s not terrible , it’s manageable. He/him pronouns don’t make his skin crawl, not the way that Percy described it when he was younger and everyone called him a girl, and he has no one to try out they/them with. His hair is already long for a boy’s, and it’d be nice to try out some more femme clothing choices, but he doesn’t know . It’s certain and uncertain at the same time, surety and unsure.
The only thing he’s truly been afraid of was his father’s fist, but this twisting in his gut nearly matches it because of all the what ifs stewing in his mind. What if Percy, the boy he’s loved for years, turns him away? He knows he won’t—he’s seen Percy through his own transition when they were teenagers, that he loves him and trusts him with his life and heart and truth, but that doesn’t stop his hands from shaking and his heart from leaping out of his chest.
Which is why he has to do it now .
Now, lying in bed next to Percy, hands running along the familiar scars across his chest, a tangible reminder that if anyone would understand this inexplicable discomfort in his own body, it would be Percy. Percy, whose aunt and uncle didn’t quite understand him but supported him anyway, would bound into his bedroom talking excitedly about his first binder, his first T-shot, his first packer. Percy, who loved him since they were too small to know what this love was, too young to realize that they weren’t brothers or friends but more .
“Perce,” he whispers, half-hoping that he doesn’t hear him, that he will have a reason not to force the words out.
“Yeah?” he whispers back, turning his head to meet Monty’s eyes. There’s a line of scruff along his chin, a long-anticipated side-effect of four years on testosterone, and Monty takes his free hand to rub up against it, pretending he doesn’t feel his own facial hair growing in, the opposite effect, making him feel less and less at home in his body.
Say it, just say it, get it over with .
“I love you,” he says first, hoping it will soften him before the hard part.
Percy smiles and turns every so slightly, kissing Monty’s fingertips. “I love you too.”
“Also I’m non-binary.” Even with the words out, he can’t breathe , his lungs are tight with waiting and wanting and praying that Percy says something. In the tense silence, Percy searches his eyes, that bottomless near-black brown that Monty’s gotten lost in more times than he can count.
“Do you want to stop being my boyfriend?” Percy asks quietly, and Monty’s heart drops from his chest, all the breaths he didn’t have sucked from his mouth. “Oh!” Percy sits up abruptly, shaking his head. “No, not like that! I meant more if you preferred if I called you my partner instead, I’m—” Percy hides his face in his hands, releasing something between a shout and a growl. “I’m sorry, that was phrased poorly.”
Monty lets out a breathy laugh, half-hysterical, throwing his head back onto the pillow with a satisfying oomph . “We’re right tits at this, aren’t we?”
Percy snorts a laugh and lays down next to him, lips pressed to his bare shoulder. “Ah yes, I’ll never forget when I told you I loved you and you said—”
“ Thank you .” Monty repeats with a smile, knocking their heads together. Another silence, but this time, it’s happy.
“So, do you want me to call you my partner? Do you want to use different pronouns? A different name?” Those brown eyes again, filled with sincerity and eagerness , as if he can’t wait to get to know this new side of Monty.
“No, I…” Monty frowns, unsure of how to phrase it. “I’m okay with he/him pronouns and my name—or, Monty, at least, but not Henry, never Henry—and I still want to be your boyfriend.” There’s a small smile at that. “I just… don’t feel like a boy, not entirely.” He doesn’t know how to tell him that some part of him is boyish, boy-shaped, the same-but-not-quite, and he feels all sorts of contrary asking for this, a confession with no change, at least not yet. “I do want to try they/them though, maybe. Sometimes.” He admits this last part quietly, just as quietly as he began.
“Oh, Monty?” Percy begins dramatically. “Yes, they’re my wonderful boyfriend, and I love him very much.” It’s an old game they used to play, before Percy was outwardly him , before he told his aunt and uncle the truth, his truth, and his skin fit like the dresses he’d been forced to wear.
“And Percy is my incredible boyfriend, and I love him even m—” Monty returns, finding lips on his before the sentence is wholly out of his mouth, as comforting as the hand sliding along his rapidly beating chest, and the way Percy’s feet draw up to ghost across his own.
“We’ll go shopping tomorrow, if you want,” Percy offers, another game they played as children. They’d go shopping with Monty’s mother and, when she wasn’t looking, Percy would find clothes and slip them in among Monty’s. He’d change into them when he spent time at the Montagues’, which got longer and longer as they grew older and older.
“Yes, please.”
Shopping was easier when they were younger, Monty decides. It was easier when he spent more time watching Percy out of the corner of his eye (he still does) and more worried about keeping his mother’s attention away from the cart laden with more clothes than anticipated (he can still steal his mother’s attention, but he has no need to now, not with his ever-growing distance from his childhood home in more ways than he can name).
It was easier when he wasn’t shopping for himself. When the skirt in their hands—a shade of blue he’s loved from a young age—is tantalizing and terrifying, all smooth fabric and cool waves.
But Percy… Percy makes it easier.
“How about this?” he asks, taking a dress from a nearby rack and holding it up. It’s mint green and belted, covered in lace. It’s beautiful , but Monty’s heart seizes at the thought of wearing it.
“Not yet,” he decides, rubbing the fabric of the skirt between his fingers as a nervous habit.
“That one?” Percy steps forward, placing a hand on their shoulder. “It’s a good color for you, matches your eyes.”
Monty snorts, shoving an elbow into Percy’s side. “Flirt,” they accuse. “I thought that was my job.”
“I’m Mr. Steal Your Job,” Percy says with a grin, pressing a kiss to Monty’s cheek. “And your gender.”
Monty laughs, a full-bodied thing that draws the attention of nearby customers, but he doesn’t care.
For quite possibly the first time, he feels good about himself, about how his body and mind fit together, and this simple thing, making jokes and shopping for skirts with the boy he’s loved all his life, is what did it.