Work Text:
Clementine’s grades in school are slipping. She knows that she’s not doing well academically, and that she hasn’t been able to focus in a long time.
It’d been okay maybe a year ago. She’s been uncomfortable in her own skin ever since she can remember, yeah, but it was manageable in the past. She was able to push through everyday without the intrusive thoughts taking over her entire mind every single second of her existence.
But the past few months have been hell, as her body developed like every teenager’s does eventually.
Male puberty sucks ass.
Her voice has been steadily deepening, and she went through yet another growth spurt even though she’s over six feet. She’s just slightly shorter than Wilbur at this point, but he’s older than her, which leaves room for future changes. She thinks she’s going to have a breakdown if she ever surpasses his height.
She’s been avoiding mirrors even more than usual lately, even while pulling the same shit she always does. Shying away from cameras, refusing to glance at her own reflection if she can help it. Even if she washes her face or something of the sort, she looks at herself without really seeing.
It’s like she’s disconnected from her body—the person everyone else sees on the exterior isn’t truly her. Her personality, her humor, her shenanigans—that’s Clementine, yes. But the short hair, broad shoulders, and too-prominent Adam's apple isn’t part of her at all. That’s just what everyone else perceives on the surface.
That’s Tommy. A stranger and an impostor. Clementine doesn’t care about him.
It’s not fun at all, going through this visceral hatred of her appearance. It’s taking everything out of her, and doesn’t know how much longer she can keep on going like this.
She wants to tell someone. She wants to get her emotions out and find solutions, but that takes a whole other level of courage to reach out for help, and she’s not so sure she has it.
She’s not so sure those around her will understand.
“Tommy!” Wilbur calls out excitedly.
Clementine flinches involuntarily, reacting before she can even process it enough to stop herself. It’s been getting worse; in the past, maybe it was a grimace or a wince, and she’d be able to get over it quickly. But now, her mind lingers on the name.
Tommy. A fine, regular name that doesn’t intrinsically have any meaning attached to it. But people use ‘Tommy’ to refer to her, and it bothers her to no end. It shouldn’t even matter, really. It’s just a name that people have used all her life, and it doesn’t change anything.
But it’s traditionally a male name, and Clementine doesn’t like that. It causes people to default to masculine pronouns, and it shapes their view on her. There’s nothing wrong with the name itself, but there’s a social issue associated with it.
Wilbur isn’t looking at her directly when he speaks, so he doesn't notice the full-body flinch in response to his greeting.
He’s holding onto his guitar, having just exited his room to come downstairs and show Clementine something.
“Take a look at the stickers I’ve put on my guitar,” Wilbur tells her, pointing at the base, grinning. “What do you think?”
Clementine, still reeling and attempting to rid her mind of her negative thoughts, scrutinizes the instrument. Wilbur walks up to her to hand it over so she can take a closer look.
There are 80s themed neon stickers plastered all along the wood with some game-related designs.
“Huh. It’s nice,” Clementine remarks.
Wilbur looks a little disappointed at her underwhelming response, but it barely shows on his face.
He smiles. “Thanks! Maybe it’ll help motivate me to write more songs.”
That’s right, Wilbur uses music as a way to get his emotions out. It’s a form of catharsis.
Clementine kind of wishes she could do the same. She’s capable of playing the piano, but she can’t sing for the life of her, and she doesn’t reckon she’d enjoy hearing her own voice even if she could.
“I’m going to head back upstairs; let me know if you need anything,” Wilbur says.
Clementine nods, waving him off. She sighs, picking at her nails absentmindedly as she sinks back into her thoughts.
She’s been spending more time in her own mind lately.
“Hey, Tommy?” Phil asks, his voice hindered by the closed door. He raps his knuckles lightly against it. “May I speak to you?”
Clementine freezes, her heart sinking.
She knows this conversation has been a long time coming. Phil pays attention to both of her siblings’ report cards, and Clementine’s is no different. She’ll have to face him one way or another.
She hastily gets up from her chair, taking tentative steps over to her bedroom door, dreading the confrontation with every passing second.
What’s she supposed to say, anyway? That she's failing school because she can’t pay attention due to her head being clouded by gender dysphoria all the time? Is that even a valid reason?
Whatever the answer is, it’s not like it matters. Phil won’t accept her if he knew the truth.
She unlocks the door and pulls on the handle, opening it halfway to meet her dad face-to-face.
He has a sheet of paper in his hand, but she doesn’t need to look down to know what it is.
He looks apologetic, which makes her feel sick to her stomach. He should be angry, upset—she’d deserve it anyway for not even trying to get her homework done most days.
“Hi,” Phil says, to which Clementine pushes the door open all the way, stepping aside to allow him entry into her room.
She looks down at her socked feet, avoiding his gaze as he comes inside.
Phil reaches over to ruffle her hair, surprising her.
She glances upward, and he smiles fondly at her.
“Don’t worry; I’m not mad,” he says. “I presume you know what this is about?”
The tension in the room lessens, and the air feels less thick. She huffs, secretly relieved, even if it’s only slightly. “Yeah… sorry.”
A simple ‘sorry’ is nowhere near enough to make up for everything, but she doesn’t know what to do—she doesn’t know what Phil wants to hear and how she should handle the situation; she’s just a dumb teenager who’s not equipped to sort this out on her own, goddammit.
Her face must be exposing how stressed she is, because Phil gently sets his hand down on her shoulder, causing her to jump at the unexpected gesture.
He retracts it immediately, apologizing for unintentionally startling her.
Clementine shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine—” she tells him. “Sorry, I’m just nervous.”
“Oh,” Phil acknowledges. “You don’t need to be, Tommy. I’m not here to lecture you; I just want to help.”
Clementine nods reflexively. She has no doubt he does, but the truth is that this isn’t a matter he can mend.
“C’mon, you should sit down,” Phil tells her.
It’s just then that Clementine realizes how awkward the two of them are, standing in the middle of the floor talking to each other like that. She almost laughs inadvertently at the ridiculousness of the situation (and because of how anxious she is), but contains herself and goes over to sit on the edge of her mattress.
Phil takes a seat next to her, and she holds her breath, anticipating his next words.
“Do you remember when your brothers were struggling in their classes, a few years back?” he asks softly.
Clementine pauses. She does remember that happening—they both had to sort out their own issues. Techno had been a good student all his life, but it became a challenge for him to keep up with his lessons when he entered his first year of high school with undiagnosed ADHD. Wilbur had to take a break in middle school for his mental health during a particularly rough time period.
Clementine sympathized with them, but she didn’t understand what they were going through at the time, and why they weren’t doing well in school. She just tried her best to be supportive and make them feel better. Flash forward to now, and:
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“I remember,” Clementine states simply. She knows what Phil is getting at, but sits still and waits for him to continue anyway. It’s more comforting to have him put it into words.
“They needed some time to figure things out, and it helped them in the long run. I worked with them every step of the way,” he says, watching her closely. “There’s no shame in reaching out if you need to.”
Oh, if only he knew.
Clementine hums, noncommittal. “Okay. I’m just tired. It’s the sleep-deprivation catching up to me,” she lies.
Well, not a complete lie. She doesn’t get much sleep, but that’s not the underlying issue.
Phil is quiet for a moment, and Clementine can tell it’s because he doesn’t believe her. Not that she expected him to. He’s too smart for that, really.
But as long as she doesn’t reveal her secret, she’s safe. He can try to uncover it all he wants, but she’s not ready to willingly say it.
(She’ll never be ready.)
Phil goes along with the information he has. “Restlessness is typically a side effect of something else. Is there something on your mind?” he asks.
Clementine’s hands shake in her lap. She tightens them in fists to prevent it.
“I—I don’t know,” she replies, panicked. That’s a weak, blatant lie, because she knows very well what’s bothering her. “I don’t know, dad, please—”
“It’s okay,” Phil interjects. “It’s okay, Tommy.”
Except her name isn’t Tommy, and she hates hearing it.
But he reaches out to pull her into a hug, and she accepts it because it’s the only semblance of reassurance she can get, and she desperately needs it. She trembles into his arms, squeezing her eyes shut. She wants to tell him so badly, but now isn’t the time.
Not yet, not now.
Her uniform is uncomfortable. It irritates her to no bounds, and Tubbo, who sits next to her in their shared geography class, keeps sneaking glances over at her in concern.
“If you have something to say, then go ahead,” she tells him eventually, ticked off.
“Um,” Tubbo says, keeping his voice down so he doesn’t draw attention from the teacher or their classmates. “You can take your blazer off if it’s bothering you.”
Clementine tugs it off and drops it onto her lap in response in order to make him shut up.
She loosens the tie, too. It’s cold in the classroom, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t get to feel the cool air against her knees like the other girls do, because her uniform forces her to wear trousers instead of a skirt, dammit.
She quits fidgeting with her clothes and pretends to focus on taking notes.
Tubbo leaves her alone for the rest of the class, even though he can tell something’s off.
It’s obvious that her mental health is rapidly taking a dip, plunging into further depths than she’s ever experienced before.
She grows irritated and disagreeable, snapping at her family for the simplest things. If she spent a lot of time in her room before, it’s nothing compared to now, with how often she shuts herself inside those four walls. Besides going to school, she doesn’t come outside for anything other than meals or a glass of water.
Her siblings didn’t suspect anything at the very beginning, because nobody waits around expecting others to start spiralling at any given moment. Everyone expected her to act like her usual self, and didn’t realize that something was off until the signs became too great to ignore.
She's aware that she’s being an asshole to those who care about her, but she doesn’t give a single damn. She’s far too deep into this to even be ashamed anymore—she just wants everybody to leave her alone.
But they don’t.
They keep trying for her, even though she swears she’s not worth it.
Enough of her classmates and teachers report her that she ends up stuck in the counsellor’s office more often than not.
Her counselor is a kind lady who genuinely wants to assist her however possible, but Clementine doesn’t want to be helped. Especially not from a stranger.
So she deflects questions and refuses to cooperate, fighting off all the concern, suggestions, and resources she has so kindly been granted. She rejects all that is offered to her, much to the worry of the school staff, friends, and family.
Phil gets called by the school’s administrators often enough that he’s constantly being interrupted at work to go and pick her up from school, much to Clementine’s chagrin and frustration.
“What do you need, Tommy?” Phil asks hopelessly one afternoon, as the two of them are situated in the car. He glances at the rearview mirror to look at Clementine, who’s sulking in the backseat, her arms crossed over her chest as she glares out the window.
She watches as the trees pass by, staring up at the clear sky. It’s a sunny day, and it’d be a nice opportunity to go outside and enjoy the spring season, if she still did that kind of stuff.
She hates herself for ostracizing her friends. They’ve been nothing but kind to her, and yet she’s been declining all offers to go to hangouts. She wishes she could just be normal and happy; she wants nothing more than to simply function like her peers and enjoy being a teenager.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need,” Phil reiterates. “Please.”
Clementine ignores him. She rests her forehead against the car window and closes her eyes.
She wishes she were a better person. But she’s not. She’s selfish and does nothing but bring stress to those who care about her.
Techno gives her a rundown on what to expect on her first therapy session.
Phil didn’t tell her she was going to therapy, but Techno is presumably explaining it because he was asked to, which means that this isn’t her choice to make.
She’s not thrilled about it.
“Therapy is meant to push you out of your comfort zone,” Techno says, even though Clementine is tuning out half of his words. “I didn’t like it at first. But it eventually benefitted me.”
“I don’t need some shrink to diagnose me,” Clementine snaps, but what she really means is: I already know what the problem is.
“I’m not messed up like you are,” Clementine continues, when she truly wants to say: I can’t be fixed in the way you were.
Techno doesn’t react to her insults. He doesn’t appear angry or hurt. His voice remains steady when he reassures her, saying that she’ll be okay.
She shoves him out of the way and locks herself in the bathroom, tired of listening to his lies.
She spends a lot of time on her phone.
She had to turn off all notifications from apps after people wouldn’t stop bugging her with frantic messages.
Refusing to talk to people isn’t easy, but she doesn’t reckon she’d have the energy to do so even if she was willing.
Phil must’ve done some paperwork or something, because she’s officially been permitted to take time off school. It doesn’t make her feel any better. It simply gives her more hours of the day to think about how much she despises her own body.
Her features, every aspect about her—it’s just wrong.
She lies down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, wishing life wasn’t a literal fucking hell.
The final straw snaps on a Friday. All the pent up anger and hatred is no longer something she can continue harboring, and it all comes tumbling out in an outburst.
She cries when Phil asks if she wants to get a haircut.
The answer is no. No, she doesn’t want to undo all the hard work and time it’s taken for her to grow it out these past few months, praying for it to grow at a quicker pace, wishing that it wasn’t so curly so she could see the effects without waiting as long.
The unruly blonde strands are falling past her ears and over her eyes. Just a bit longer, and it’d probably reach her chin.
She could’ve just simply stated “no” when asked if she wanted it trimmed. God, it’s not a complicated or an unusual question, and yet she chooses to have a breakdown over it instead of acting rational.
She’s kneeling on the floor, sobbing during the middle of a family dinner. There’s some shuffling, the sound of someone getting out of their chair. The drop of a fork and a quick exchange of words between two people. She can’t think clearly enough to recognize who’s speaking.
Nobody touches her, but someone kneels down nearby, and she can see them out of the edge of her vision, even when her sight is blurred with tears.
There’s a familiar flash of yellow. The only person who wears that color is Wilbur, when he has his favorite sweater on.
It takes her a while to notice that he’s murmuring something to her. She forces herself to focus and strains to make out the words.
“—should take a few deep breaths—it will help you calm down—”
He’s instructing her on how to get through a panic attack. She’d call bullshit on the method if she wasn’t aware that he knew these things from experience. But he does. He’s gone through the same grounding method before, and he knows what he’s doing.
So she listens.
“—Breathe in for four seconds—” Wilbur begins, guiding her through the technique.
She tries, but it’s difficult to match the pace immediately when she’s still hyperventilating.
“Hold for seven,” Wilbur continues. “Then exhale for eight.”
Clementine closes her eyes, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her shirt. She hates this, having to be babied by her brother all because of something as inconsequential as Phil asking a question.
She hates how weak she is and how they all pity her. It sucks.
When she opens her eyes again, the world comes back into focus. She hears someone treading around and the sound of the kitchen sink running. The clink of retrieving a glass from the dishwasher.
Oh. She turns her gaze upward and to the left to see Techno filling it with water.
Phil is crouching down beside the table on the opposite side of Wilbur. Clementine’s eyes meet his and he offers her a small smile as consolation, if nothing else. Clementine then looks over at Wilbur, who does the same.
“Hey.” He says it like a greeting, even though they’ve been here for a while already.
It’s a good sign. Clementine reciprocates it with a quiet “hi”, her voice meek.
Now that she’s calmed down, the embarrassment begins to set in. She sighs, but doesn’t get to dwell on it for too long before Techno returns with the glass of water he was preparing. He offers it to her, and she accepts it gratefully.
“Thanks,” she whispers, bringing it to her lips.
The water is cool and refreshing, and she immediately feels better. She reaches up to set it on the table when she’s done, and that’s when she notices she’s still on the ground. Her knees hurt.
She pushes herself up to the chair she was sitting on beforehand. Her dinner is still unfinished—well, all of theirs are. It’s long gone cold by now.
Techno, Wilbur, and Phil all take that as their cue to return to their seats too.
Everyone’s silent, and it’s awkward, all because of Clementine.
Well, shit.
Clementine picks up her fork and stabs at her food absentmindedly, because she needs something to keep her occupied.
They don’t expect her to explain what just happened. If she keeps quiet the entire meal and then returns to her room afterwards, they’re not going to press her any further on the matter.
She’ll get away with it just as she’s gotten away with every other outburst in the past. They’ll keep permitting her to because they don’t want to worsen the situation, and because they’ve done all they can to help her. Except she’s not trying and putting effort into cooperating.
And the world won’t magically fix itself if she doesn’t start trying.
She doesn’t premeditate the words that come tumbling out of her mouth next.
It’s been a long time coming, but it’s still a spur-of-the-moment thing in a sense, as she talks.
“What I wanted to say—” she begins, wincing at the sound of her raspy voice. Her throat hurts. “—was that I don’t want to cut my hair. I want to grow it out… because…”
She trails off, tapping her fingers along the edge of the table.
Wilbur speaks up next. “Like Techno’s?” he asks, grasping at straws here, attempting to carry the conversation onwards.
“Uh,” Clementine considers, grateful for the response. “No… more like Niki’s.”
It’s honestly a ridiculous answer; Clementine doesn’t actually want to copy anybody’s hairstyle. She’s just biased towards Niki because she admires her. Niki in all her stylish outfits, Niki with her dainty makeup. Niki and her gentle personality, Niki and her bubbly laughter.
Her demeanor is all soft edges and sweet smiles.
Clementine can only dream of being even half as beautiful.
“I just—I’m—” she says, frustrated. “I want my hair to be long enough to braid, I want to pierce my ears, I want to wear accessories and pretty clothing that they don’t sell in the men’s section of the store—I want—”
“Hey,” Phil says softly, when Clementine stumbles on her words. “You’re allowed to get anything you’d like. There are gender stereotypes, but that shouldn’t prevent you from expressing yourself in the way you wish.”
“Yeah,” Techno consolidates. “I won’t let anyone mess with my little brother—”
“—Sister.” Clementine corrects, her heart beating at an insanely elevated rate. Her voice wavers, but her resolve remains. “I’m your sister.”
There’s an all-consuming silence that succeeds the revelation.
And then, from Phil: “At last, a daughter! Wilbur and Techno, you two were already a hassle to raise as my sons.”
Clementine can’t help but break into laughter, all her worries dissipating. A weight has been lifted off her shoulders, and she takes a deep breath of that rich, victorious air.
She gets resources from her psychiatrist. There are a ton pamphlets and packets saturating her desk when she gets home and deposits them there. She already knows most of the information listed because she’s done research online in her free time, but there ought to be something useful she can still learn.
Besides, now that she’s going to be set up with a professional, she can dive into the medical process. It’s a whole new level of exciting.
She doesn’t know when she’s going to be returning to school. She hopes it’s soon, but before that she still needs to come out to her close friends. And accept Phil’s offer to take her shopping for a new wardrobe. She’s been buying stuff online, but Phil wants her to have the experience of going to the mall and picking things out in person.
Techno and Wilbur have already donated her all their bracelets, chokers, and anything else they figured she might like. Techno constantly spams her Discord messages with links to hair tutorials, as much as Clementine insists that she’ll need to keep growing it out before she can style it.
Wilbur barges into her room every morning to make small-talk before he (and Techno) has to head to school. He brings her random snacks from the vending machines when he finally returns home in the afternoon, and proceeds to tell her stories about how his day went.
Clementine’s happy that she’s hanging out with her siblings again. She’d forgotten how much she missed it.
She wants to speak to Eret as soon as possible, because they’re the one friend whom she knows she can trust fully. They go by any pronouns, so they’ll understand immediately.
There’s still a lot of work left to do, and Clementine’s got a long journey ahead of her, but for now… for now, she’s content.
It’s been a long time since she’s felt okay, but things are finally looking up.
Nothing is perfect, but it’s enough.