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Honest to all of the gods, Jayce didn’t think his day was ever going to end.
The middle of the semester isn’t a great time for anyone—there’s not a student at the academy who isn’t up to their necks in papers, exams, and assignments that just never end. He feels like he’s drowning in it. Drowning in incomplete assignments, failed exams, and half-assed papers because everything is being put on the back burner for his research. His research, which is a hell of a lot more important—he thinks, anyway—than explaining in seven pages why an object’s acceleration due to gravity doesn’t change whether you drop it or whether it falls on its own.
(It’s a ridiculous assignment. Acceleration due to gravity is a constant, and constants are always the same. That’s all he needs to say to explain it.)
And the thing is, extensions are always an option, right? Not for Jayce. Because what is he supposed to say to his professors? Sorry I couldn’t complete this assignment, I’m doing illegal and dangerous work without anyone knowing. Could I have just another couple of days to work on it? Thanks! Even if they didn’t report him outright, it’s just… no one understands what he’s working on. No one understands why it’s so important—no one but him. No, it’s better just to take the falling grades for now, and he can pick them up when he’s cracked it.
But it’s over—at least for the weekend. For a couple of days, Jayce doesn’t have to think about school. He’s back at the Kiramman’s, now. He’s supposed to be watching Caitlyn during his short break, which isn’t a problem. She doesn’t need a babysitter, so she says.
I’m not five, she always tells him with a huff, chin raised and her arms folded over her chest. I can look after myself.
Jayce doesn’t disbelieve her. But whatever she says, they always end up hanging out together rather than avoiding each other anyway. It’s like having a sibling. Like Cait’s his kid sister, sometimes a little bit annoying and infuriating, but who he loves anyway.
He scoffs quietly at the memory as he stands in front of the floor-length mirror in his room. His hands are shaking as he rips off his cravat and vest, fingers flying to undo the buttons and laces of his undershirt so he can finally get it off. And suddenly, Jayce can breathe again—he sucks in a gulp of air, tossing the articles of clothing onto the bed and closing his eyes as the feeling of suffocation fades entirely.
Almost entirely.
He peels his eyes open again, lifting a hand to scrub at his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. It’s the same binder he’s been wearing for a year and a half now—simple, black, and always a fucking struggle to get off. But fuck has he been looking forward to it all day. His back’s been killing him lately, and he knows it’s from binding too much, too long, but he can’t exactly help it when he’s stuck running around campus all day, you know? Jayce vows to take a break this weekend—it’ll be comfy shirts and hoodies for him until he has to go back.
Jayce takes another moment to just… observe himself. He turns in the mirror, side to side, smoothing his hand over the fabric. Jayce remembers the first time he put one of these on—he was fourteen, and his mom bought him his first binder for his birthday. It was like… like flipping a switch. He stood in front of that mirror, making these exact same movements and these exact same motions for an hour before coming out of the bathroom crying.
Look, ma, he’d managed through tear. It’s me. It’s me, it’s me.
And then she wrapped him in the biggest, tightest hug, and they cried together—and Jayce knew for the first time what euphoria felt like.
He feels that a lot more, these days. From being called dude or bro by his peers and his classmates. From seeing himself with a little bit of stubble coming in underneath his chin—scratching at it and hearing the (albeit horrible) sound that it makes. Being told what a nice young man he is by old people as he offers to carry things for them.
Jayce gives himself another few seconds before he exhales slowly. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay. You’ve got this.” He crosses his arms in front of him, reaching down to take the bottom edges of the fabric between his fingers. Gods, this is always simultaneously the best and worst part of his day—the relief is wonderful, but the journey to get there is just a lot. He can remember at least several times nearly dislocating his fucking shoulder trying to get the damn thing off.
He braces, arms tensing, ready to lift up on the count of three—
The door clicks. Jayce hears it swing open, and his head jerks to the side as he remains frozen to the spot. Caitlyn is standing in the doorway. Her hand is still on the doorknob, and she’s just staring at him.
Jayce stares back. He can’t move, his arms are still crossed and he’s still holding onto the fabric, and he can’t move and the silence drags on forever, and—
“Oh,” Caitlyn finally says, looking a little embarrassed. “Sorry.”
It breaks Jayce out of whatever spell settled over him. He drops his arms, rushing toward the bed as he speaks. “Shit, I’m sorry. I thought the door was locked. I thought I locked it, I didn’t realize—” He swears under his breath, reaching for the shirt thrown on his bed. His heart is hammering painfully in his chest, and Jayce can hear the blood roaring in his ears. It’s not that he’s worried she—or anyone else—will have a problem with it. No one has a problem with it, Jayce knows, but he doesn’t know if Caitlyn knows. If her parents have ever spoken to her about some people are transgender, by the way and he doesn’t want to accidentally have that conversation with her before they can, you know?
And it’s just—maybe he’s a little bit embarrassed. Because he’s spent all this time acting and playing a part, and now there’s a piece of him exposed and Jayce just isn’t sure he was ready for it to be seen.
He shoves his arm through the sleeve, and it catches on his bracelet. Jayce thinks he could cry. He thinks he’s going to cry, and Jayce can’t get words out anymore—he’s just sitting on the bed, fumbling for the right ones.
The mattress dips as Caitlyn sits down next to him, laying a hand on his arm. He still hasn’t gotten it through the damn sleeve, and—
“I get it,” she says.
“You,” Jayce pauses, confused. “You get it?”
Caitlyn looks at him expectantly, then pokes herself in the thigh. “Me too.”
And Jayce should know what she means—he feels like he should definitely know what she’s saying. He’s… connecting the dots. He’s connecting them, just very slowly, and he knows that his confusion is evident on his face when Caitlyn heaves an exasperated sigh.
“You know, for a genius you’re very dense!” is what she says, crossing her arms and pouting at him. Jayce doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, and she waits another few seconds before she adds, “I’m trans, Jayce. I’m—me, too.”
And suddenly it all makes sense. Jayce feels like he’s going to cry, again, though for a much different reason. Because she gets it, and he realizes that crying because your fifteen year old sort-of-sibling understands your plight is a little bit pathetic, he knows that, but it’s just such a fucking relief to be understood.
And he allows himself to relax—he pulls the sleeve where it was stuck on his arm, bundling the shirt up and holding it in his lap. Silence falls, and they sit with it. And it’s not awkward or uncomfortable now. He holds the edge of the sleeve in his hand, running his fingers over the fabric as he stares down at it. Caitlyn sits next to him, gaze focused on the floor with her hands folded in her lap—she rubs one thumb over the other again and again, a small, repetitive motion that he might have missed if he didn’t do it himself. She’s smiling.
Siblings, Jayce thinks again with a sudden fondness. Family.
When it’s broken, it’s by Caitlyn looking up and nudging him with her elbow. He snaps his gaze up to meet hers as she asks, “Is there anything… we can do to help?”
If she notices his surprise at the question, Caitlyn doesn’t say anything. Jayce is grateful for that. “My mom and I,” he starts, shifting his gaze back down. “We’ve been paying for it with money from the forge. The hormones, I mean. We don’t… it’s still not enough for any procedures, you know? But I can’t ask your parents or anyone to pay for that kind of thing. They’re doing enough, and—”
The door creaks again, and someone clears their throat—both their heads turn to look. They’re greeted with the sight of Tobias Kiramman leaning against the door frame—dressed for an outing already, arms folded over his chest and a fond smile on his face.
Jayce is unable to stop himself from sitting up a little straighter, and he sees Caitlyn do the same from the corner of his eye. It’s hard to miss the way she brightens around her dad, and he’s sure there’s a bit of that in himself, too—amidst the nerves and the embarrassment of having not one but two people walk in on him today. It’s just a little awkward.
“That’s not what she asked,” Tobias says.
“Mr. Kiramman,” he rushes out, “I thought you—I thought you two already left.”
He smiles, just a little wider, and offers a one-sided shrug. “I had a gut feeling someone in this house needed a dad right now. What can we do for you, son?”
And there’s something about that—something about Tobias Kiramman calling him son that pushes Jayce just a little closer to those tears he’s been trying to hold back all day. Maybe several somethings—things he could identify if he wanted to have a small breakdown right here and right now, but things that he’ll let rest for now. Until he’s alone again. He lets his shoulders droop as he slumps forward a little, speaking quietly. “I don’t… you’ve already done so much.” Jayce says. “I don’t want to ask for more.”
There’s silence for a few seconds. Caitlyn’s hand is on his arm again, reassuring. He hears a sigh, and the sound of heavy footsteps, and the bed dips as Tobias Kiramman takes a seat at his other side. Jayce looks up as a hand falls on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” Tobias says, warm and friendly. “Just think about it. We want to help and support you however we can, Jayce. You’re stuck with us now, you know—part of the family.”
He doesn’t say it like a joke, and Jayce sort of wishes he had.
“Yeah,” he forces out, trying not to get choked up, “yeah, okay.”
“I told you!” Caitlyn says immediately, elbowing him in the side again. Jayce responds by reaching up to ruffle her hair, which receives a litany of complaints and swatting at him.
“Yeah, okay. Punk.”
Caitlyn’s face turns red, and she blows her cheeks out in irritation at the name. The sight of her obvious pouting is almost enough to pull a laugh out of him. “I’ll show you a punk, you little—” and then she’s poking his sides, repeatedly. Jayce isn’t actually ticklish, but he supposes, after a moment of reflection, that he’ll be generous and let her have this. He catches Tobias leaning back to watch them as Caitlyn full on tackles him, both giggling and cackling wildly.
The sound of him slapping his knees pulls them out of it, and Tobias reaches over to ruffle Caitlyn’s hair again as he stands. It gives them a moment to calm down, laughter tapering off—Jayce is still lying on his back, Caitlyn sitting on her knees next to him. Tobias is studying them with a fond look on his face, and Jayce can’t seem to push down the grin on his face.
“Alright,” he says after a moment. “Your mother and I are heading out. You two be safe and have fun. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” they respond at the exact same time. Jayce looks over at Caitlyn, and Caitlyn stares back at him. And as Mr. Kiramman walks out of the room, they dissolve into another fit of laughter.
Laughing, Jayce decides, feels so much better with family.