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“Okay, listen.” Narancia stands halfway out of his seat, hunched over the table. He takes a preemptive bite of spaghetti – fueling himself for a potential (inevitable) dinnertime debate.
It’s a wonder, Bucciarati’s mentioned several times before, that Libeccio even lets the six of them inside, given that they’re always a nuisance at best, if not overtly destructive. It’s not like any discipline, from Bucciarati or elsewhere, has ever worked, though.
Fugo already looks poised to argue. Abbacchio’s pulled his headphones halfway off. Mista leans closer, intrigued ( “Biased,” Fugo would always say. “He’s your boyfriend” ).
Narancia swallows the spaghetti and clears his throat. “So, like, isn’t it weird when someone calls you a man?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Fugo immediately snaps back.
“Y’know, like, when an old lady’s talking about you, and she’s like, ‘oh, what a handsome young man you are!’ That feels so weird. ”
Bucciarati shrugs. “I always think it’s sweet.”
Even Mista looks unconvinced. “Yeah, dude, I don’t think I get that. Are you sayin’, like, if some old lady’s hitting on you –”
“No. No. That’s not – the old lady’s not the point. It could be, like, anyone. You guys don’t think it’s even a little weird?”
Fugo shakes his head. “No, not really.”
“So, if I’m, like,” Narancia puts on an exaggeratedly deep voice, “‘Fugo, you’re a man, a mafia man, a young man –’”
“Yeah. I have no problem with that.”
Narancia huffs. “Maybe you’re just weird. Ever think about that, cheese boy?”
“Cheese boy?”
Finally pulling away from his plate of stewed octopus, Giorno breaks his silence. “Is it an issue with the term ‘man,’ specifically?”
Narancia shrugs. “I mean, I guess ‘boy’ is kinda the same way. ‘Guy’ and ‘dude’ and all that’s whatever, though. Maybe it’s ‘cause they’re not as formal?”
Giorno nods, like he’s turning something over in his head, and returns to his meal.
(Narancia’s never been able to decipher what’s going on in Giorno’s mind. None of them have, from what he can tell. It’s frustrating. Can’t he just say what he means like everyone else?)
“Hate to say it,” Mista says, “but I think it’s just a you thing. I’m totally chill with people callin’ me a man or boy or whatever. Doesn’t feel weird at all.”
Narancia glances around the table, hoping someone gets it, but he’s only met with shrugs and half-confused glances.
Abbacchio puts his headphones back on, sensing that his dinnertime entertainment has ended. Fugo and Bucciarati start chatting about some mission from yesterday.
“Whatever,” Narancia mumbles, collapsing back in his chair.
Mista puts his hand on his knee and strokes it, and it’s a little reassuring, but he’s still pissed.
It can’t be just a him thing, can it? Maybe he didn’t explain it right. Someone’s gotta know what he’s talking about. He can totally see Fugo denying it just to spite him, and maybe Mista and Bucciarati are just saying that ‘cause they’re nice and laid-back and don’t care about stuff like that.
He pokes at his spaghetti with his fork, slouching in his chair. He didn’t even get a fun argument out of that.
This sucks.
…
After they pay the bill and start heading their separate ways, Narancia’s stopped by Giorno, of all people.
“Narancia, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you for a moment. One-on-one.”
“Oh, uh, sure.” He sits back down at the cleared table. Giorno’s across from him, posture tall and straight – that, combined with the fact that he’s technically his boss, makes the atmosphere strangely professional. “I’m kinda going home with Mista, though, so I don’t wanna make him wait –”
“I’m going home with Fugo, and I believe the two of them are outside, debating the existence of aliens, at the moment. I’m predicting it’ll turn into a religious argument. Unless you’d rather listen to that, I’d say we have some time to spare.” Giorno smiles, and Narancia snickers.
“Yeah, that’s fair. What’s up?”
Giorno folds his hands on the table. “Well… you’re aware that I’m transgender, right?”
Narancia stares blankly at him. “Huh?”
“I’m transgender. A trans man, to be specific. I try to be fairly open about that, but –”
“No, but, like, what is that?”
Giorno pauses, apparently not expecting this response. “It means that my gender doesn’t align with the sex I was assigned at birth. Years ago, I realized that I’m a man, and I’ve since changed my name and physical presentation to represent who I am more accurately. Does that make sense?”
“Oh, yeah! I think I, like, kinda knew what that was. Didn’t know there was a word for it.” Narancia grins. “That’s actually so sick, though. Like, you picked out your own name? And you were just, like, ‘yeah, this is the kinda guy I want to be,’ and you just did that? Man, wish I could be that cool.”
“Well, I suppose that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Giorno says. “Narancia, what you said earlier about being uncomfortable with masculine terms… made me think. I realized that I felt the same way about feminine terms before I transitioned, and I couldn’t quite place my finger on why they bothered me, either.”
Narancia blinks, connecting the dots in his mind. “So… you think I’m trans? Like, I’m a lady or something?”
“I’m not saying you are. You’ll have to decide that for yourself. From my perspective, though, I’d say it’s a possibility. Of course, gendered language likely wouldn’t be the only factor at play, so, if you think you may be trans, I’d recommend doing some self-reflection and experimentation.”
“Experimentation? Like… how?”
“Well, you already dress in a fairly gender-nonconforming way, and I wouldn’t say that your name is particularly masculine – unless you did want to change it, of course – so I’d recommend starting with pronouns. Try some different sets, and see how you feel about each one. That could at least get you thinking about how you identify.”
Narancia nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah, I’ll try that! Thanks, man.”
…
Early the next morning, the door to Fugo’s office bursts open. Narancia barrels in and slams his fists on his desk. “Fugo, what’s a pronoun?”
“Jesus –” Startled, Fugo jumps back in his seat, dropping the papers he’d been reading. “Narancia, how many times do I have to ask you to knock?”
“This is important. I gotta know, like, now. ASAP.”
Fugo sighs. “You need to know what a pronoun is?”
Narancia nods frantically.
“A pronoun is a part of speech,” he says, falling into the overly-didactic voice he always seems to utilize when giving a lecture. “In a sentence, it takes the place of a noun – for example, I may say, ‘I’m holding the pen.’” He takes a pen from his desk. “Or, I could say, ‘I’m holding it. ’ ‘It,’ in this case, would be a pronoun replacing ‘the pen.’ Does that make sense?”
Having absorbed none of that, Narancia furrows his brow. “What the heck does that have to do with gender?”
“Hm?”
“I talked to Giorno the other day, and he was all, like, ‘Narancia, I’m diagnosing you with gender, and you gotta try pronouns, ‘cause pronouns are gonna help you figure out gender,’ but, like, I don’t even know, and it’s freakin’ me out –”
“Narancia.” Fugo cuts him off. “What the actual, genuine fuck are you talking about?”
The words tumble out of Narancia’s mouth before he can even think about them. “Giorno says I’m probably transgender, and, like, I’m starting to think I might be.”
Fugo’s silent for a moment, and Narancia begins to worry. Shit, probably shouldn’t have told him straight-up like that. Does he think that’s weird? Wait, there’s no way he does, ‘cause Giorno’s his boyfriend, but maybe that’s different, and –
“Oh. Okay. I think I understand.” Fugo folds his hands together.
“Great. Cool. Explain it, then.”
“Would it kill you to be patient?” Still, he continues. “There isn’t much I can say about gender identity in the way GioGio, and maybe you, experience it. I’ve had fleeting thoughts every now and then, but I’d say that I’m solidly… cisgender, I believe the term is. All I know is what I’ve learned from GioGio, so you’d have to take any advice I give you with a grain of salt.”
Narancia drums his fingers against the desk, growing restless. “So, pronouns?”
“What I just explained still applies. GioGio likely meant that using other pronouns to refer to yourself might help you better understand your identity. So, for as long as I’m aware, you’ve been referred to as ‘he’ by others, and by yourself. If I was going to talk about you to someone else, I’d say, ‘this is Narancia, he’s my friend, and I’ve known him for a long time.’”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“So, you might want to try using words besides he, him, himself, and so on.”
“Like, she and her and stuff?” Narancia asks.
“If that’s what you’d like, sure.”
Narancia ponders this. He – no, she nods her head, slowly.
Huh. Maybe?
“If you decide you want to be referred to using other pronouns, let me know –”
“‘Kay. Yeah. Thanks. Bye, Fugo.” And she tramples out the door just as aggressively as she’d come in.
“Hey, at least shut the door, you asshole!” Fugo shouts, but she doesn’t bother to turn around.
There’s too much swirling around in her brain as it is.
…
“Hey, babe, are you doin’ alright?”
Trust Mista to figure it out.
It’s a typical Friday night for them – takeout boxes scattered across the coffee table in Mista’s living room, discarded napkins doing little to clean the grease from their fingers, and a terrible romantic drama from the Blockbuster clearance bin playing on the TV. Mista has his arms around her, and she’s resting her head on his chest, and it’s a scene so comfortable, so familiar, that it’s aggressively clashing with the series of mats and tangles that is her mind.
Narancia’s not sure how to bring up the subject in an organic-seeming way, so she gets straight to the point. “How’d you feel if, uh… if I was your girlfriend instead?”
Mista looks a bit confused by the question, but shrugs nonchalantly. “Like, if you were a girl? I’d be chill with that.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, totally. I like girls. And dudes. Both are cool. Besides, I just kinda like you. If we were in some alternate universe, and you were a chick, I’m pretty sure I’d still end up falling for you.” Mista grins and peppers kisses on Narancia’s temple, and she giggles.
“Dork.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, this is maybe kinda hard to explain, but what if I am a girl? Like, I’m me, but I’m a girl, and I didnt realize it ‘til now?”
“Oh, this is about the thing from dinner the other day, right? You’re thinking, like… you’re not a guy?”
“I dunno. It’s weird. Fugo and Giorno have been tellin’ me about these things called pronouns – like ‘him’ and ‘her’ and all that – and I’ve been trying to think about myself with different ones, but it’s… I dunno, man.”
“It’s not helping?”
“Not really. I feel like it doesn’t do anything when it’s just me thinking it.”
Mista pauses for a moment. “I got an idea. And you tell me if I’m just being a dumbass.”
“You probably are.”
“Touché.” He ruffles Narancia’s hair, untangles their limbs, and stands up from the couch. From amongst the empty takeout boxes and drops of sauce smeared on the coffee table, he takes the remote and pauses the movie on a rather unflattering closeup of the male lead. “This is my friend,” he says, pointing at the screen, “and I’m gonna introduce you to him. I’ll try sayin’ you’re my boyfriend, and my girlfriend, and you can see which one you like better. Sound good?”
Narancia’s honestly just trying not to laugh at the stupid face the actor’s making, but she nods anyhow. “Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.”
Mista clears his throat dramatically. “Hello, my homie, actor from this shitty American movie we got from Blockbuster. This is my boyfriend.” He gestures to Narancia and winks. “His name is Narancia, and he enjoys long walks on the beach, Snoop Dogg, and taking up all the space on my Playstation with his PaRappa the Rapper save files.”
“You can’t just play that game once, dude.”
“What’d you think, though?”
“Uh, try the girl ones,” Narancia says.
“Okay. Greetings again, actor guy. This is my girlfriend. Her name’s Narancia, and it has been two weeks since she last tried to steal my orange juice by chugging it straight from the carton, and instead ended up spilling it all over herself and the floor. I love her a lot, though. She’s pretty neat.”
“Um. Huh. Okay.”
Mista resumes the movie, tosses the remote back on the table, and returns to the couch. “What’s the consensus?”
“To be honest, I think I’m even more confused now.”
“Why’s that?”
Narancia leans into Mista, and the scent of his sweater is soothing. “I don’t think I like the girl words. But I don’t know if I like ‘boyfriend’ that much, either.”
“So, if you didn’t like either –”
“No, like, I’m fine with ‘he’ and stuff, I think. I like it more than ‘she.’ Just… I dunno. This is stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Mista says. “If you don’t like ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend,’ I won’t call you either of those. Maybe I could say, like… ‘partner?’”
“‘Partner?’ Like a cowboy?”
“Yeah, dude. It’s like we’re in one of those Clint Eastwood movies. Way cooler than ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend,’ anyhow. If you’re cool with that.”
And there’s something in Narancia’s heart that lights up at the thought of it. “Yeah, actually, yeah. I like ‘partner.’ ‘Partner’s’ good.”
Mista smiles and puts an arm around her.
No, that still doesn’t feel right.
Around him.
Ugh. Back to square one.
…
“So, yeah. That’s the problem, I guess.” Narancia watches as Trish rifles through a rack of dresses. He’d like to do the same, but his arms are currently occupied with a cluster of other department store bags – Trish’s spoils from their previous stops in the mall. “I still don’t feel like a guy, but I don’t feel like a girl, either.”
She hums, pulling out a peach sundress from the rack and studying it. “And you’re stressed about it?”
“Yeah. ‘Course I am. I gotta be one of them, right? Maybe I really am dumb. I can’t even figure out whether I’m a dude or a chick.”
Trish is silent for a moment as she glances back and forth between the dress and Narancia. “Would you wear this?”
“Huh?” He looks at the dress. It’s simple, light, and patterned, and he likes the color. “Yeah, probably. I could use a new dress, actually. My favorite one got wrecked last month, when we had a shootout with this guy –”
“And this is from the women’s section.”
“What, you gonna tell me I’m a girl ‘cause I like dresses and skirts and shit?”
She shakes her head. “I’m just saying that you don’t limit yourself to men’s or women’s clothes.”
“Sure. It’s just fabric.”
“Well, maybe your gender’s the same way. Maybe you don’t have to be either.”
She drapes the dress over his arm, but he barely processes it.
Something about that sounds… really, really nice, actually.
“Is that even, like, allowed? Can I do that?” he asks.
“I have no idea, but… I can’t see why not.”
The conversation ends there, but the questions forming in Narancia’s mind aren’t as distressing as they had been.
(He buys the dress. It looks good on him.)
…
“Fugo,” Narancia practically yells into the phone speaker, “I need help.”
“You better have a damn good reason to call me at two in the morning.”
“I need more pronouns.”
“You what?”
“Are there pronouns that’re, like, not ‘him’ and ‘her?’ Like, ones you can use for people that aren’t those?”
A deep breath and some tired grumbling come through the phone. “Yes, there are, actually. I believe there’s a number of them. There’s instances of ‘they’ being used as a singular personal pronoun in texts as far back as –”
“‘They?’ That’s allowed?”
“Yes. That’s what I just said.”
“I think… I think I like that one. Yeah. ‘Kay, thanks. Bye, Fugo.”
“Is that all you called –”
Narancia hangs up and raps their hands against the kitchen counter, a grin on their face.
…
“I wanna try some words again,” Narancia says the next Friday, once again curled against Mista on the couch.
Mista sets down his half-eaten slice of pizza and brushes his hands off on his pants. “Sure thing. What’re you thinking this time?”
“Could you try calling me, like, ‘they?’”
Mista clasps his hands together and thinks for a moment. “Okay, I think I got it. Ahem. This,” he says, pointing finger guns in Narancia’s direction, “is my partner, Narancia. They’re really cool, and pretty, and they put mushrooms on margherita pizza, which is kinda whack, but I really like them, and –”
“Yeah. Yeah. ”
“Yeah?”
Narancia’s heart swells as they process the words, and their hands flap rapidly at their sides, and finally, finally, it sounds right. “I – I think I really like that. If you’re cool with it…”
“I mean, what matters is that you’re cool with it, right?” Mista smiles, as though Narancia’s own happiness is infectious, and takes their hands.
“I’m very cool with that. I think I’m still alright with ‘him’ and stuff, but, like, ‘they’ just fits. Dunno what that means yet, but… I think I like being neither. Something else besides a guy or girl, y’know? Does that make sense?”
“Hey, all I know is that you seem real happy right now, and that’s what matters to me.”
Narancia flops forward into Mista’s chest, laughing, and he runs a hand through their hair.
“Plus, I think that kinda fits you. It’s kinda dumb to only have two choices, anyhow. Especially ‘cause two is half of four…”
The night proceeds as usual, but Narancia, for once, feels like themself.
And that makes all the difference.