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In hindsight, Blake had known something like this was going to happen. He'd seen the warning signs weeks ago. He'd been avoiding mirrors and cameras like the plague. Preferring to borrow Pico's oversized sweatshirts instead of wearing his own. Wearing his too-small binder a little longer each day, then wearing it to bed, safety tips be damned.
It was obvious that he would have to reach a breaking point eventually.
Somehow, that didn't prepare him for being curled up on his bathroom floor, half dressed with the shower running, wailing like he'd been shot.
It was stupid, really. He'd been trying to fall asleep, and not having much luck. Like some twisted joke from the universe, his period had been two days early, and his cramps, while not terrible, were enough to keep him awake.
After a while of tossing and turning, and just generally feeling gross, he had decided that a hot shower might be soothing enough to let him finally get some rest.
He had walked into the bathroom, not daring to switch on the light, had turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and had gotten as far as taking his shirt off before he made the mistake of glancing at the mirror.
In the darkened room, he could only make out his silhouette, but it was enough. Immediately, he could make out the curve of his chest, that no amount of binding could completely hide. The slope of his hips, where they met overly soft legs.
He had broken, then, and dropped to the ground.
So that left him here, alone, leaning against his bathtub at 1 in the morning, in a full swing breakdown.
He let out another sob, and the sound of it grated against his ears, high and feminine and wrong, just another glaring reminder of the body he couldn't escape. The body he hated, and that some days, seemed to hate him just as much. The body that, despite his best efforts, was, and always would be, a girl's body. No matter what he did to it, or how well he played the part of a guy, he couldn't run from how he was born.
He hated it, he hated it, whatever cruel twist of fate that had left him like this. Had denied him any chance he had at ever being a real man, had trapped him in this life that he had never asked for.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, but he knew was probably closer to 20 minutes, he just flat out didn't have the energy to keep crying.
Giving up on the idea of showering at this point, he reached over to turn the water back off. For a few moments, he sat and tried to gather the willpower to stand and go back to his room, before he gave up on that too. The floor wasn't that uncomfortable, and even if it was, there wasn't a physical discomfort in the world that he would even notice compared to everything going on in his head.
Exhausted, he settled down to lay on his side, on the floor, and let himself fall into an uneasy sleep.