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“I don’t know,” Simon says, scanning the contents of Izzy’s wardrobe. His girlfriend lays her arm around him.
“You don’t have to, but I thought… I won’t laugh. Promise.”
It’s not Izzy who Simon fears. He knows she’s cool. She didn’t bat an eye when he – drunk as a skunk – told her about what he did many years ago when his mother brought Rebecca to camp. He had secretly tried on his sister’s clothes, carefully folding and putting them back right after. He had loved the feeling of the soft fabrics on his skin, how the lush rose of her Bat Mitzvah jumper had looked against its paleness. He didn’t dare look at himself in the mirror back then. It felt dangerous, somehow, as if he would break into a million pieces if he’d see this part of himself with his real eyes and not only in his mind’s. Back then, he returned to his jeans, tees, and hoodies—safe clothes that fit him most days. And on those they didn’t, he either soldiered through or spent the days in PJs. The unease always passed over time.
But now he’s here, looking at his girlfriend’s clothes, his fingers itching with the urge to touch, to feel the fabric, to see the colours and patterns against his skin. He’s curious how the fashion would hug his frame. But what if he likes it? What would that say about him, about the man he is?
He’s always been surrounded by women, at home but also with Clary and Jocelyn. He never had to hide his more feminine traits in front of them. But for the first time in his life, Simon has male friends, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t even imagine wearing clothes like this with the same confidence that Magnus sports them. Maybe he’ll just need a few more hundred years to embrace every part of himself. Herself? Themself? He isn’t sure.
“What about this one?” Izzy asks and pulls a fluffy black jumper with silver threads out. “I bet you’d look beautiful in it.”
Simon wets his lips and nods. He slips out of his tee, his hand hovering above the jumper for a moment before he takes it and slips it over his head. It ends awkwardly around his shoulders. Izzy pulls on it until the wide neckline slips over one shoulder and the fabric falls over the other. She smiles at him warmly when Simon looks down at himself, running his fingers over the wool. “You look gorgeous,” she says.
“Really?”
“Take a look,” she says and pushes him gently in front of her mirror.
A gasp falls from Simons’ lips, tears pricking his eyes.
“Do you like it?” Izzy asks. Simon can only nod. This is him. Not every day, but sometimes.
“I have the perfect eyeliner for this one,” Izzy whispers. Simon blinks at her. She really supports him with this.
“It’s not weird?” he still asks.
“It’s not weird,” she promises.