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Begbie's father didn't care about him. In general and specifically the way he acted. There wasn't a word for it- if there's been a word for it and his father's known it he'd have kicked the shit out of him.
For that, specifically.
It was easier for his mother to keep his hair buzzed short with the rest of his brothers. She might've once held notions of plaiting and brushing hair when she was a girl, but mostly depressed or out of it and stuffed (stuck?) in some shit flat she didn't have it in her to care. Didn't have the strength to make anything different - to make him different. Neither of his parents really had any family, and friends could never keep count of any number of anyone's children on the estate. Besides, he'd looked like Kevin when he was a boy and Ian when he was in his teens, so they couldn't fucking tell either way.
School was a different business, ken? He'd met Mark Renton for the first time in some maths lesson or other, and Mark'd kept quiet around him until they'd made it out into the playground.
"Thought you were a boy until she introduced you," he squinted.
"I am one."
"Fair enough then." He'd looked at the hair and shorts, noted what he thought was the confident way he’d said it. "Need a different name to call you by."
No one had ever said that, and Begbie can remember it now. They can both remember the whole thing, but when Mark tells about their first meeting he omits the teacher's mistake: "'you can sit next to Francis' she said". Like Franco does, like when he remembers it.
When it was him in particular in the spotlight (under the searchlight) his parents referred to him by what they'd called him, but usually they were pissed enough to call a brother's name at him. Teachers were a different, fucking worse, story. No one had ever asked him.
"Frank."
"Franco," Mark said.
"Aye, Franco."
Mark gestured at the lads, "Comin to play fitbaw then?"
He had to be asked, which annoyed him 'cause there were boys who were nae good at it who sat oot but you never had to ask if you were good at it - it was assumed you could join. And he was fucking good. Still, that didn't change that being asked was fucking something. And Mark's shout of 'Franco's playing, he's on oor side,' left him with a feeling he'd never gotten tired of.
He couldn't talk about fancying anybody, was one thing. There were lists of things he couldn't do, but this was something he couldnae fucking tak aboot. It was fine wi his mates, cause they'd all forgotten mostly so he said he wanted to shag girls (even though he didn't and wouldn't) and they called him a buftie in the same way they did Rent Boy or any ay them. His Da wasn't aroond to know either way. But if he'd mentioned a girl his Ma would flicker to life, looking at him like he was wrong. Same the other way.
His brother's were a mixed bag, when they'd gotten older.