Archive of Our Own

It’s just warm enough to be uncomfortable. Aaron wants to die.

The ceiling fan, despite its desperate whirring, still fails at its one goal; to bring Katelyn’s room down from the foggy, awful damp heat that has been this summer’s existence. A shame, like most things in Aaron’s life, it seems.

Katelyn’s sitting on her bed, multi-tasking studying and being Aaron’s one sense of relief in these dire conditions. Aaron is at her desk, and should be studying, but. The curses of being enamoured by your girlfriend, and also having sentience, and therefore thoughts. 

They're not even new thoughts. They're not even new, just a rattle of old assumptions and musings, forever left to be unconfirmed. Popping in and out at the worst of times—including now, when Aaron absolutely, again, should be studying, as was the plan of him coming over to Katelyn’s at all.

Instead, he's staring at his laptop, and then at Katelyn, and then at his laptop, and is about to do the stupidest shit he's ever decided on in his life.

… Second stupidest thing, realistically. It feels like the stupidest now, though. Maybe because he's letting it be based on chance, maybe because he hasn't done his usual nineteen hours of over-thinking before just… doing it. Whatever the reason, he feels dumb as shit, and yet Aaron still opens Google. He types in coin flip, and hits enter. Heads or tails, heads or tails, heads or tails. He clicks it.

Tails.

Well.

“Kate,” Aaron calls, pushing himself away from her desk to then immediately slump against her bed. He watches as she moves her laptop to the side, and burrows his face into her blankets, possibility of heatstroke ignored.

“Yeah?” 

“You’re bisexual, right?” Aaron asks.

He already knows the answer—she’d told him a while ago, back when she had realized herself. They don’t talk about it that much, though, so. Confirmations are nice, and what have you. Katelyn hums an affirmative, peering over him with a small smile, reaching a hand out to play with his hair. 

“I am,” she says, voice soft. Her voice is always soft, though, really. And she always stares at him like this, open and gentle, and it makes him feel a bit like a lovesick fool. “Why?”

Aaron nods, and he holds his hand out instead of answering. She looks amused, but allows the question to go unanswered, fitting her hand over his, and holding tight. 

The pressure is nice as always. Grounding. Aaron kisses her knuckles. “Cool,” he says. “I think I’m a girl.”

Katelyn stares down at Aaron, but her expression doesn’t waver. It does pause, and reboot a little bit, but doesn’t lose it’s fond affection. “Oh?” She prompts. The closest thing Katelyn ever gets to doing the verbal equivalent of one single question mark in response to a strange text. 

It’s a push for elaboration. Of course it is— obviously. Still, a part of Aaron wants to clam up. Not push it aside as a joke, but still refuse any questions. Aaron looks away, still keeping their hands tangled together.

“I’ve figured for a while,” Aaron says, and it’s true. It wasn’t ever a coherent thing—never in depth, beyond spiraling nights and connecting dots she ignored like the plague. She did figure, though. Know, even, maybe, under a few layers that tried to pretend she didn’t.

It’s been easier to be a boy, a lot of her life. It’s been easier, and things were simple, and there wasn’t a lot of need to complicate that. Her life already was complicated. Girl or boy, it doesn’t seem to matter when you’re dealing with literal worst nightmares come to fruition. 

She doesn’t care for Exy, either. Not like most of the foxes, but to some extent, it would make some vague issue if she were to come out. People talk, and lord already knows their reputation hasn’t always been sunshine and rainbows.

Not that it is now, either, but.

Aaron figured she was a girl when she was seven, and then eleven, and then fifteen, and, most recently, right fucking now. It’s always been there, in various, oddly blunt ways. Dreams, desires, things that were beaten out of her, and things that she still found herself drawn to. An ever constant, ever pointedly ignored, buzz in the back of her head.

So. Flip a coin, to come out, or to not come out. It doesn’t really change a lot when she already knows, it just changes who else knows. Not that many need to—but Katelyn is one of them. She tells Katelyn everything, after all, and she deserves to know who she’s dating.

“Figured saying anything would make shit messy,” Aaron says. “But, most of it has calmed down from the mess it was. Here we are.”

Katelyn hums. “Here we are,” she echoes. A finality, a closed discussion. Maybe there should be more—if they were normal, Aaron is sure there would be, but they are both simple people. It’s not as if Aaron has changed or died, and so Katelyn doesn’t care. “I can finally wrangle you into girls' nights,” Katelyn muses, eyes twinkling as she makes plans.

Aaron scrunches her nose. “Hey,” she says, though they both know it’s somewhat of a false warning. All bark, no bite. Aaron would let Katelyn do whatever she wanted to her, or with her, joyously. Nail polish, hair dye, whatever Katelyn’s decided is the group activity, Aaron won’t be far behind.

Katelyn laughs, and Aaron watches the way her eyes squint, slightly, and the way her body jostles. It’s mesmerizing, in the way anything Katelyn does is mesmerizing. She could load a gun in front of Aaron, and Aaron could full-well know Katelyn meant to use it on her, and Aaron would still only be focused on the way her concentration tightens as she loads the bullets, or the way her hands would look holding the thing.

Shameless, sure, but you can’t really blame her. It’s Katelyn, and Aaron’s dating her, and what else is she meant to do? Not be obsessed? No.

“Do you want to go shopping?” Katelyn asks.

Aaron thinks about it, sinking further into the mattress. “… Not for a lot,” she lands on. “I’m fine with what I currently have. Nothing’s changed, I’m still—” She gestures, aimlessly. “— Aaron, right? But, a few things would be nice.”

“I can’t date a woman with a bad fashion sense.” Katelyn says, solemnly. The tone of her words rip a laugh out of Aaron, something sharp yet incredibly light. She knows how much she loves Katelyn is concerning—a Minyard gene, surely, to be something of a wretched little beast of a dog with those who’ve been accepted into your heart and home—but it’s moments like this that really make it shine. Aaron wants nothing more than to worship her, even on the worst of days. She’s not one for religion, not anymore, but Katelyn’s name has always felt something like a homemade prayer when it falls from Aaron’s lips. She doesn't like to recite any holy text, but if you cracked open her ribs, the waxed poetry that embeds itself onto her organs and soul would read like some sort of gospel.

Aaron loves this girl, and nothing else matters, actually, when Katelyn’s eyes crinkle at the edges, and she squeezes Aaron’s hand.

“But you could date me before?” Aaron asks, her lips quirking up at the way Katelyn huffs, rolling her eyes. 

And that’s—well. That’s kind of that. It’s easier than she thought it would be.

Oh, oh, Aaron fucking lied. This isn’t easy. This shit sucks. This shit sucks so much. She’s one wrong touch away from puking.

It’s Nicky, next. Of course it’s Nicky next. 

Aaron’s palms are oddly sweaty. Which is a weird thing to fixate on, probably, because it's the peak of summer, but it's either focus on that or how much Aaron wants to chew her own fucking leg off like a dog.

So. Sweaty palms. They suck.

Aaron had considered that she might have hyperhidrosis, then it was chalked up to a general anxiety disorder, then that was chalked up to post traumatic stress, and they’re back at square one. 

It’s wouldn’t surprise her if she was just built in a fucked up way, unrelated to anything deeper. A curse from God—be it the maybe-real one in the sky or the one that lurks over her shoulder much more like Their Devil equal—for being, like, born. Deserved, maybe, but annoying, because she keeps drying her hands on the inside of her jacket pockets, and they’re starting to get damp, and Christ, she needs to bring this up with Abby or something. Or get gloves. Or both? Probably both, right?

The door in front of her opens.

What if she killed herself? Let’s discuss.

“Aaron?” Nicky asks, blinking at her. “The hell are you doing standing out here? Dude, I thought you were like… Seth’s ghost, or something. Haunting the place.”

“Uncloth joke,” Aaron says, even though she really doesn’t give a shit, and Nicky rolls his eyes. “Can we talk?”

Nicky frowns, looking Aaron up and down. “It’s your dorm too. Yeah, come in, come on.”

And Aaron does, shuffling into the place like it's some alien space, and not where she sleeps—mainly nightly. Seventy-five percent of sleeping happens here. It feels weird. It might not be Seth’s ghost, but something is haunting this fucking place.

It might be herself, actually.

Nicky’s watching her. “You want a hug, kid?” He asks, and—no, yes, maybe? Sort of. Aaron attempts to vocalize this. Fails. Nicky still gets it, because he’s known Aaron since she was even more of a touch confused teen. He drags her in by the wrist, tugs her close enough to squeeze one side—and then reaches over and balances out the touch on the other side, thank fucking God—before stepping back, and going on with his activities.

It’s a bit embarrassing, how much it helps. A weird perfected with age side-hug is all it takes for her bones to feel like bones again, and not weights crushing her. Hands are still sweaty, though.

She watches as he dashes off, doing a million things at once. Cleaning, organizing, bitching. Always a busy day when you know the foxes. Always a busy day when you're Nicky fucking Hemmick, apparently. He tells Aaron about a million different things, none of which she processes, but she thinks she hears hints of next game, and answer the fucking phone once in a while, while Nicky starts color-coding the various cups they have, and gets enough of an idea.

Telling Katelyn had been easy. It’s—that’s Kate, at the end of the day, right. She gets things, she gets Aaron, fucked up past and questionable future and all. Telling Nicky feels… stressful. Suddenly it's not just a secret Aaron could keep bottled up, tucked away in her and Katelyn’s pocket. It was real, this was real.

Which, let's be clear, Aaron will sooner die than unpack that in any meaningful way. Being transgender in concept, reality, whatever, is enough. There’s nothing else to it. No issues. None. That’s it.

“How are you?” Nicky asks, dotting around the room. His back is turned to Aaron. He isn’t looking at her, but Aaron still feels suffocated. She feels like a boy in confession again. She feels like a girl sat across a dinner table from her mother. Words away from being vulnerable, unable to stop what's set in motion. I'm a girl, she mouths at Nicky's back, almost desperately. 

She could've written a letter. God knows her lovely track record with them. She should've written a letter. Rejection settles easier when it's in ink. She'll reread it until her eyes bleed but at least the words would not have slipped past her aching throat, she would not find them a brand upon her skin. Dramatic—sure, but it's all she can think of, beyond the unfamiliar desire to leave the premises as soon as fucking possible. Sooner, even.

“Fine,” Aaron grits through her teeth. It’s not a lie, she is, but it also absolutely is a lie, and she isn’t at all. Hope this helps.

Nicky stops his maddening rush around, tilting his head back to look at Aaron. His eyebrows are creased, and he frowns at her.

"Are you sure?" Nicky asks. It's his job to ask, by all technicalities, or it was, but Nicky is Nicky, so Aaron can't even find it in herself to feel upset at the more clinical tone. It's Abby-like, if nothing else. Not Dobson-like. There's connection—care, even, if Aaron would let herself go so far. Which, this is her cousin, so of course she will. She's not that dramatic. Most of the time.

"I'm fine," Aaron says again. "I just have—a question." She gets out, and wants to smash her face in over how goddamn dorky it sounds. I have a question, like she's about to ask if she can get the strawberry toothpaste instead of the mint one.

Nicky nods, humming, and turns to face Aaron fully. He gestures for an elaboration, settling against the counter across from her.

"If I wanted to get estrogen," Aaron starts, picking at the hem of her jacket. She stares at the flooring, counting the kitchen tiles she knows by heart. Two, four, six, "Would you help?"

Aaron doesn't need his help, not really. She’s an adult. She can figure it out on her own, she can get other help.

But.

She wants his help. She does, and that fact feels like pulling teeth.

Nicky softens. Eight, ten, twelve, "Aaron," he says, and Aaron can tell he's biting his tongue from saying any further endearments. The way he nearly coos her name is enough for a lifetime. Nicky pushes near, just enough to rub at Aaron's shoulder, before stepping back. "Of course."

The odd urge to get the fuck out —also known as: running , though Aaron refuses to refer to the bubbling instinct as such, because it's seemingly trademarked by someone she wishes she didn't know—still burns against her veins.

“Aaron is still fine,” Aaron says, instead of thank you. Nicky nods, a mix of fond and eager in his eyes. 

"Proud of you, Aaron," he says, immediately ruining it, because gross, and Aaron gags to show this.

Nicky just laughs. Aaron does feel lighter which is—infuriating, actually. 

“I’m a girl.” Aaron says. It’s bland, nearly in passing, and she almost expects that to be it. It’d be the simplest one so far, certainly, and the words are already starting to bubble out easier. They’re sort of nice, actually.

She’s a girl. Cut and dry and simple. A girl who just rocked Kevin’s shit on the new game she got, as per usual. She slouches into the couch, letting the controller drop in her lap. Easy, simple, unimportant. It’s not that important, honestly. Not anymore. Katelyn knows, Nicky knows, Abby knows, everyone else is sort of an add-on. It’s not as if she changed. She’s still going to be a doctor. She’s still neutral on Exy. She’s still a strange in-between of outsider and fox . Nothing’s changed; not really.

Easy. Easy, easy, easy.

Of course—this is Kevin Day she’s talking about. There was never a realistic chance of this being easy. He blubbers, gasping on the water he was trying to drink. He squabbles out, “What?” Like they’re his dying words, and she rolls her eyes, patting him sharply on the back, once.

It doesn’t help him at all, but it also wasn’t meant to. So.

“I’m a girl,” she repeats. “Congratulations, Day. New Year’s Eve three years ago isn’t gay anymore.”

Kevin burns so brightly she’s almost worried he’ll stay like that, splotchy and red and unappealing. It’d be awkward to explain to anyone; and a shame, his chronic stress break-outs were just starting to slow down. He breathes heavily for a minute, to catch his breath or edge himself into a hyperventilation fit, she isn’t sure.

“I mean,” he coughs out, easing his body out of fight or flight. “It’s still—I’m still—ah. Well. Good for… you?”

“It is,” Aaron agrees. “Why did you say it like a question.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Kevin says. “I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

Aaron baulks at that, incredulous. “I’m literally just coming out to you. Has nobody ever come out to you before?”

Silence. It fits around them like snow, packing into every crevice between them. Aaron makes a disbelieving noise.

“What the fuck,” Aaron says. “You’re lying.”

Kevin drops his face to his knees, burning alive all over again. “I’m not,” he says, and thank God Aaron is used to his voice being muffled by skin, because it’s fucking indecipherable.

“Your best friend is Andrew,” Aaron says, aghast. “The—Kevin, the people that you know who aren’t gay, or trans, or whatever the fuck, are so entirely the minority. Kevin.”

“Andrew just made-out with a guy in front of me while making eye-contact,” Kevin says. He sounds like a kicked puppy. Aaron feels like she’s stepped on a landmine, mouth agape. The game they were playing still continues its endless replay? Outro song. She’s never going to be able to play this again. What the fuck. “He never said anything, I just put two and two together.”

“You’re lying,” She says again. Kevin makes a wounded noise. He isn’t.

What the fuck.

It’s a solid quarter past five in the morning, when it happens again. This is her life now, it seems: a series of unfortunate coming outs.

Aaron’s eyes are barely open, and her socked feet tap across the floor as she makes her way into the kitchen, following the smell of brewing coffee. Sleep is itching at her, but if she doesn’t study for this test she is so unbelievably fucked. 

She groans when she sees the figure looming over the coffee machine. It's not as if she expected anyone different, but this familiar culprit makes her want to gouge her eyes out. Neil flips her off without looking back.

“Morning, fuckface.” Aaron says, her words barely comprehensive as she yawns. The vulgar, rude, horrendous, offensive , hand gesture turns into some fucked up backwards wave. She hates this guy. So, she obviously only trails further into the kitchen, eyeing the coffee machine like it’s some sort of deity. It feels like one, right now. 

“Finals?” Neil asks, finally turning to face her. Aaron huffs out a sigh, rubbing at her eyes.

She’s tempted to scream instead of replying—lord knows it would get her point across the same way, but her throat aches a bit too much from lack of liquid. “Almost,” she says instead. “Test. Worth twenty-five percent of my grade.”

It should be a final. It isn’t. She hates her fucking classes.

Neil whistles, and they both wince at the noise. “Jesus.” He says.

“Something like that.” Aaron says, watching as Neil pulls out a mug. It’s ugly. Vaguely endearing, but ugly, ugly, ugly. A horrific morph of something meant to be a fox, clear by the splotches of vivid orange. It’s fucked up, and Neil had gotten it half-off at some random store, imprinting on sight. Aaron only knows because she was there.

Against her will, but she was there.

She’s been tempted to break it a million times. She’s held back, though. Something award winning, surely. “Grab mine, too.” She says. Neil doesn’t answer, but he pulls it out mere seconds before the counter clacks shut. Her’s is normal, and not ugly. Because she’s normal.

Neil grabs the coffee pot. It’s five in the morning. Aaron isn’t thinking straight, not really.

“I think I’m trans?” Aaron says, without thinking, and then, “No—no I know I am. I’m trans. By the way.” Because if she can say it to Kevin Day with confidence, she can say it to the other stray that crowds her family. Neil pauses, digesting the words as he pours coffee into his mug. The kitchen is quiet, because Aaron has not slept, Neil has just gotten up, and their schedules only line-up in twisted little ways like this. It's nice, Aaron thinks, if only due to the fact they're both too tired to start shit with one another. For the most part.

“Oh,” says Neil, as he leans over to grab the creamer. He pours so much it nearly overflows. Gross. “Cool. I—I thought about that too, ages ago? But, like. I’m in debt to the mafia, and I’m going into Exy professionally so… I don’t have a lot of time to think about it.”

Aaron can only stare at him. “What?”

Neil does not fucking elaborate, because when has he ever, and just barrels on, instead. “But—like. Uh. Sick? So, you’re…”

“A girl.” Aaron answers, flatly. Neil nods.

“Cool,” Neil says, again. He mixes his awful coffee concoction, before downing it so fast it makes Aaron cringe. “Should I call you something else?”

Aaron waves a hand in the air, shuffling closer to see how much coffee Neil left for her. “I don’t care,” she says, oddly truthful for a conversation between her and her, historical, worst enemy: Neil fucking Josten. Neil just hums, sliding against the counter opposite of her as he rattles his fingers against the counters.

“Alright. Does Andrew…?”

Aaron pauses her grab for the coffee, cringing once again. Her eyes are closed, tight, when she goes, “Not yet.”

The silence lingers long enough to weigh her shoulders down. It hadn’t been—intentional, to wait this long to tell Andrew. Aaron hadn’t thought she’d be here, a handful of people down, and her twin brother not one of them. 

Katelyn was first. That’s obvious. That’s expected. Nicky, next, because that’s Nicky. Abby, because… Abby, and if anyone could help her figure out what the fuck she wants to do transition wise, it’d be her.

Aaron doesn’t have an excuse for Kevin, though. Or this. Maybe it’s her getting used to coming out, wanting to be out on a larger scale, that leads to her blurting it out the second she’s in close quarters with anyone. It’s not intentional, her silence of the topic around her other half. It’s not.

It just might be subconscious. A sick sort of fear. Which is… worse. For sure worse, actually. It’s not as if Aaron doesn’t know Andrew would accept her. It’s not that. Not fully. It’s just—well.

It scares her, a little bit. Maybe because everyone else could be someone that comes and goes, but Andrew is something permanent. She can’t go back from whatever this does to their relationship. Or—maybe it’s the opposite. Everyone else has shown they’d stick around, no matter what. Even in Neil’s situation of no matter how much Aaron wishes that wasn’t the case. Andrew is just fleeting. Someone who was gone, was there, is here, and can be gone again.

Aaron doesn’t know. That’s probably the real issue. The fact she can’t guarantee how a conversation will go. How it’ll end. Andrew can scoff and nod all he wants, but she, infuriatingly, doesn't really get what that means. She needs something direct, at least with this, and he doesn't tend to give her that over much simpler things.

It's a touch unfair, but she thinks her own spiral of rationale makes at least a bit of sense. It does to her, at the very least, who is mainly the only person who matters in this nightmare equation. 

There’s enough coffee left for a cup of her own, just enough for her to finish up the patch of notes left in her room before passing out. By anyone else, it’d be purposeful, and nice, but her and Neil aren’t purposeful with each other in this way, and certainly not nice, so she’ll just chalk it up to coincidence. 

“I won’t tell,” Neil says, miming locking his lips, and throwing away the key. Aaron knew he wouldn’t, on some level. If she didn’t, her fucked up brain probably wouldn’t have said anything at all, as shown by the previous realization. “But you should, soon.”

Aaron raises her eyebrows. “Forcing me to come out, Josten?”

Neil frowns. It's a joke, they both know it's a joke—they've said much worse to each other to not—but he still looks like she's accusing him of killing her dog. Or, maybe he looks like a dog, all pathetic and bleary-eyed. Aaron shifts, uncomfortable with the energy in the room.

“This is your own shit,” he says, slowly. “I’m not—I get it, you know?”

She does. She wishes she didn’t. World’s worst person to understand her, because it’s like looking into the sea and seeing yourself stare back. An awful reflection, mixed with ripples and tears, mud and rock, but it’s still you. It’s gross to have a kinship with Neil. Disturbing, really.

When Neil says he understands her, she knows he does. It goes both ways. It’s never not miserable. “This is awful,” Aaron says, because it is . “Stop talking.”

“That just makes me talk more, Aaron.” Neil says, scoffing.

Neil taps his fingers against his empty mug, still loosely in his grasp. “Seriously—no shooting the shit, no jokes. Shit has been getting better, hasn’t it? Between you?”

It was. And then—

It was. Aaron nods.

“Right. So. You’re telling me, and not him, because…?”

“You’re here.” Aaron says, because she can’t think of a better answer. Neil tilts his head to the side, before he pales. He swallows.

Tentatively, he goes, “… Am I the…?”

“ No, ” Aaron says, swiftly, audibly offended, because what the fuck. “You are not the first to know, Josten.”

Neil sighs, slumping against the counter in something like relief. “Oh, thank God. I didn’t know if I had to like—be there for you, or whatever.”

“Fuck that. Gross.” Aaron says, scrunching up her face.

“Right?” Neil says. “I was about to puke.”

He’s smiling. A small, genuine thing, which is—odd, and displeasing, to think how they drag this flavor of enjoyment out of each other. A twisted, rotted, evil version of family, is the closest thing she can compare it to, but that implies he’s here forever, and while it’s true, it’s a nightmare to think of. She can’t imagine her current life without him somewhere tangled along the way, but every time she’s forced to confront the fact that he is, in fact, there, she feels a part of herself splinter off.

They aren’t friends, but they will binge a show together, and mock it relentlessly. They aren’t friends, but they’ve shared tips on bad nights. They aren’t friends, but they sort of are, and it’s deeply terrible and awful and other such synonyms.

Neil makes a small noise of wonder, and Aaron finds her gaze landing back firmly on him, instead of dancing around the still dark kitchen.

“Oh. That’s why you’ve been growing your hair out.” Neil says, after a moment. A hefty realization, it seems. Aaron blinks. 

She had been growing her hair out. It’s not noticeable yet, more of the beginnings of something messy. It’s not something Neil would ever see, though. Not until her hair was beyond her shoulders, at the very least. She opens her mouth to ask, but Neil cuts her off.

“Andrew,” Neil says, answering the question. A layer of silence fits around them, like an unspoken elephant had been brought up. It had. Neil coughs, looking away. “He noticed. I think he was upset that you guys don’t…” Neil trails off.

“That we don’t match anymore?” Aaron asks. 

“Yeah,” Neil nods, earnestly. “He’s growing it out, too.” He continues. Aaron nearly blanches.

She wants to say that doesn’t sound like Andrew at all. That he’d never care about something so trivial, so miniscule in the grand scheme of things. Much less with Aaron. Things are better, sort of, sure, but he wouldn’t care about hair. But.

That’s just being a dick to who he is, is the thing. In so many words, no, that’s not Andrew. He’d chew his own skin off before admitting to a small desire—getting better at it with Betsy be damned. He had likely mentioned it, in an attempt to be off-handed to Neil. Aaron’s growing his hair out, she can already imagine Andrew saying, with averted eyes and his normal aloof posture. And Neil, regretfully, annoyingly, painfully, gets Andrew enough to know when things are bullshit. 

This… oddly enough, would be bullshit. Aaron makes a noise in the back of her throat, ignoring Neil as she has a certified Girl Moment(™). They had matched for a while, even at the worst of it. No matter how much you hate your twin—the ol’ switch-a-roo is, apparently, a bit neither of you will think to give up. 

It’s unnoticeable to normal people, the hair difference. Andrew, however… well. Of course he’s seen it. Of course he’s realized she’s growing it out, and that with each passing day, there is a new tell to add to the list of which Minyard is before you? Checklist. 

And she hasn't brought it up with him, because it leads to questions, like, hey, what the fuck do you mean you aren't fine with the routine we've had for years? Which Aaron isn't inclined to answer, at the moment. She almost kept it for that reason alone, even the insignificant growth spooks her at times. It's weird having shit brush at your neck when you aren't used to it. Weird and uncomfortable. 

She hasn’t brought it up with him, and he’s enough of a self-centered asshole to take it as some vague form of rejection. Therapy’s done him well, it seems, because he hasn’t snarled threats in her ear, matched with a knife or his hands, but he’s whining over it . Over her. To his boyfriend.

It’s always a hard pill to swallow, the fact that Andrew cares. It’s easier to pretend neither of them do, or that they’ll always just be too different to ever be siblings. They’re blood, but that doesn’t matter much. They protect each other, but that can be put into being foxes. Aaron is Aaron, who wants, and wants, and hates when she gets it any different from ideal; Andrew is Andrew, who gives, and gives, but never beyond what he’s dubbed easiest for the situation. It’s easier to think like that, like that’s all they’ll ever be. Parallel lines, doomed to never cross over, just to watch as they ruin their own lives silently.

It’s easier to pretend that this doesn’t make sense, and that Neil is seeing the things he wants to see. That he isn’t around Andrew more than Aaron is, and that he can’t tell what’s going on with him better than she can.

Aaron wishes, for once in her fucking life, she could take the easy route. Yet she seems forever doomed to Fucking Nightmare Mode Hell Do Not Put On This Mode Never Completed By Developers Will Rot Your Save File mode.

Why wouldn’t she be.

Aaron doesn’t say anything to Neil. She pours herself a cup of coffee. It’s gone from hot, to lukewarm. Whatever.

Neil cracks his neck, shaking out his limbs as he yanks a small backpack over his shoulders. “Seriously,” he says, licking his lips as he rocks back and forth for a second. Pre-run jitters, Aaron is haunted by them, on both Neil and Kevin. “Tell him. He’s being—well. An asshole.”

How is that my problem, she doesn’t say, because she knows how it is, she gets it, whatever. Andrew refuses to talk concerns with her, she refuses to talk—about a lot with him, these days, so he’s internalizing it. Vulnerability, the nightmare two way street for the Minyard’s.  “He’s always an asshole,” Aaron says, wryly. “We all are. Kind of the stigma here, Josten.”

“He’s being a prick,” Neil says, like it’s a middle-ground, his voice lifting into a near whine. It’s amusing, not that she'd ever say it out loud. “Bitey. Talk to him. For my sake, if nothing else.”

Aaron sips her lukewarm coffee, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve never done anything for your sake.”

Neil groans, a little too loudly for how early it is, and Aaron stifles a snort into her mug.

Aaron isn’t sick. She isn’t, despite what God, and Nicky, may say. 

… Alas, they seemed to not be as convinced as her on this, so here she is, stuck in the dorms as the others make their way to Eden’s. She likely wouldn’t have gone anyway—finals are approaching annoyingly quickly, but the firm no has, historically, only ever made her want to go more. This is no different. She rolls her eyes, trying to melt into her bed and failing miserably as her head pulses.

Aaron isn’t sick. But, stress migraines are a close fucking thing, as it turns out. 

She feels like a textbook example. Splitting on the right side of her skull, feeling like what she can only imagine a hammer to the bone feels like. A fogginess in thought. The ability to talk being cut in fucking two, and the desire being in the negatives. A swirl in her vision she can pretend to ignore, equating it to the late night. The world burns and remakes itself around her, over and over, and she's tired enough to be sick of it but not tired enough to be able to sleep.

She might just kill herself to be done with it. 

It'd be easier. Sharp pain is easier than this strange endless thrum, firm and echoing. She could slice open her head and watch the blood spill. It'd hurt her eyes, probably, because anything that isn't monochrome and dark as shit hurts her eyes right now, but she thinks red is sort of a nice color, objectively. So she could deal.

Or it was a nice color. A spiteful solace turned haunting turned bleak desire once Aaron is bedridden and pissed about it. As it goes, or whatever. From devil worship to stamp of individuality to stained hands to make this fucking stop.

Aaron tries to sigh, annoyed at her own rabbit-hole of hell, but barely anything comes out, and the movement of her body just makes the hammers hit harder.

When the door clicks open, she thinks she’s been in enough agony to make the time fly—who said it had to be when you’re having fun? Incredible life hack, dissociation does wonders —but blinking her eyes open, she sees the clock echo back a solid nine forty-five, which is, in fact, not long enough for anyone to be back, unless someone died.

Aaron, of course, asks as much, going, “Did someone die?” With her awful, croaky voice that had made Nicky push her back onto bed and on strict go the fuck to sleep rules.

Not strict enough, obviously, but, hey. He tried.

There’s a soft huff of amusement, which—well. There’s only one person who could make that noise sound condescending without trying, so Aaron twists herself around, and stares at her brother.

“You’re about to, probably,” Andrew says. It takes her a moment to realize he’s responding to her own comment. She blinks at him. The colors swirl and remake, and she still hates it.

She doesn’t look away.

The jacket he’s wearing engulfs him—Kevin’s, then, because it’s too neutral toned to be Nicky’s—but outside of that, he’s wearing his usual Eden’s get-up. Same thing he was wearing earlier, down to the smudged eyeliner. So he had planned to be at Eden’s, if nothing else, because Andrew Minyard dresses up for nobody but himself and whatever God he finds in that strange little place.

It’s an odd thing to see him back early, though, or at all.

If it was Kevin coming back early, well. He’d be black-out drunk, and tailed by one of the monsters. Nicky, likely, because that would kill two birds with one stone; Kevin throwing up not in various potted plants, and Nicky could make sure Aaron wasn’t dead. Neil coming back early is hit or miss. Sometimes he truly is simply not feeling Eden’s, the music too loud or the lights too bright. He’s wired in the same way that Aaron is. She gets it. Once again, for the ‘nth time: regrettably. Any of those options would make sense, right. Any of those are expected, to some degree. A willing risk of tossing the world’s worst group of people into a public setting.

Andrew, though. Well. That’s a bit quizzical. A dash curious. His Eden's time is—again, something of a mass for him. His own, too loud and too bright confessional.

“What are you doing here?” She asks. He doesn’t seem to be joined by the others, which would explain it, even if just a little. A Neil on his shoulder, or a Kevin with a bloody nose. Those dots connect. These do not. He’s just… alone. Standing in the door like some sort of freak. He is some sort of freak, but he’s been better at not being so obvious with it.

Andrew only stares back at her. Unbothered as ever. 

“If you’re just here to be annoying about me not coming…” Aaron says, or warns. Something like that. It’s muffled by the pillow her face is smushed against. The words grate on her own ears, and the lessening throbbing against her skull comes back full force.

Really. Give her a knife. She can scalp herself. She'll make a show out of it. Give her a phone and she’ll bite down the nausea and bile long enough to start a YouTube livestream to really prove a point.

What point? Yeah.

She knows that he’s not here because of her not coming. She knows that because—well. Their relationship is as rocky as fucking ever, but it turns out, when you aren’t holding up a bullshit deal, and also dealing with things like a mass fucking murderer and the mafia, it is a little easier to get along. Just a bit. It’s easier to understand each other, too, when it isn’t clouded by stupid deals that were, apparently, a mutual dislike. Which leads to things like, somewhat normal conversations, and discussions, and things like sometimes I won't come and the response being—normal. A firm, blank, okay.

Things were nice, for a while. A slow road to whatever middle-ground they were making their way to. Things were nice, and then they weren’t, because Aaron realized things about herself and was fitted with an awful despair that, pointedly, has not left since. So—bye-bye, making up with your estranged twin that you’ve molded yourself to; hello the agonizing pain of slamming up so many walls, your fingers bleed whenever you think of it. It’s Aaron’s turn to ruin everything she touches, because no, they cannot, in fact, be normal, ever.

A forever cycle, maybe. They weren’t born apart but they were grown apart and some sort of not-quite-monkey paw curled and said and so they will always be apart, even if they’re right next to each other. Even if Andrew lurks above her with no words that show concern but an obvious amount of it because he’s fucking here at all, ignoring his own place of gospel and prayer for a dingy, certainly mold-ridden dorm room. For her.

There’s something to say about all of the buried words between them. About how their actions almost make up for it, could make up for it, but not quite and not yet. There’s also something to say about  the way she still wants to skin herself—but that’s both less and more dramatic, and again, thinking fucking hurts right now, even if she’s being forced into it.

“… You grew your hair out.” Andrew says, finally. Aaron’s head pounds too much to put any effort into emotion, so she just shrugs. What a horrible time for this conversation. Which means it's the only time. Great. Cool. Whatever.

“Girls typically do that, yeah.” She says. Andrew stares at her. She stares back. Issues with eye-contact ignored—as they always are, with Andrew. Not because it’s any less of an issue, staring him down, but because they feel like wild animals on the best of days, and while Aaron is never trying to tear down Andrew’s ego, she’s never trying to stoke it.

Well. She is trying to tear down his ego, but in the specific way of, she’s his sister, and that’s her God-given job. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Andrew squints at her. “So you’re a girl?”

She doesn’t puff out her chest, or bare her teeth, or roll her eyes. There’s no defensive layers built up—and maybe Andrew’s visit when her body is aching and brain is hazy was purposeful, for this exact reason. So she wasn’t trying to spill his blood in a measly attempt to distract from her own littered wounds. She knocks her head to the side, winces when it hurts, and asks, “Is that bad?”

Andrew pauses, his expression twisting into something Aaron can’t quite place. “Who said it was bad?”

He’s still just… standing there. Close enough to be odd, far enough that Aaron couldn’t grab him if she tried. Not that she would. It’s like a looming presence, some sort of fever dream aided by the world’s worst migraine. Aaron’s benadryl loan shark—her brother, staring at her like she’s grown a second head, and like someone’s holding a knife to her throat.

An interesting mix of emotions, for sure. Confusion isn’t an expression she sees often on her brother. 

Aaron shrugs again. “Lots of people, I’d argue.”

Andrew nods, stiffly. He’s trying to look bored. It’s failing. The real downside of when Mr. Stoic falls for someone—and is in therapy, consistently. Feelings. Boo-hoo. His hands twitch at his sides. “But, nobody said it to you?”

Aaron sits up. “Are you—” she bites down on her tongue, clutching at her forehead with the spike of pain that rolls through her. “Andrew,” she tries again, swallowing down a horribly pitiful noise. “Are you concerned?”

She’s a hair away from laughing at the way Andrew takes a sharp step backwards. “No.” He says.

She hasn’t heard a worse lie since Neil’s shown up. “Oh my God,” she says, leaning up again, albeit much slower. “You are. ”

The words are laced with amusement, because—well, she is amused. How funny, for all of his concerns to morph into anger towards a non-existent party. Expected, sure, but funny. Andrew Minyard will never not be holding a weapon; it’s all he knows how to do. A guard dog, who can only bite and growl and tear in a desperate attempt to show love and protect. Of course this is how he would react to her coming out, threatening the people who haven’t dared to say anything because he’s like this in the first place. And, also because nobody really knows, but mainly because he’s like this in the first place.

Christ.

They’re both disasters. The Minyard charm, really.

“Shut up.” Andrew says. It’s sharp, harsh, and cracks across the room. She pays it no mind.

“No, Andrew,” Aaron says, and if it wouldn’t make her feel like the goddamn Joker , she would be smiling, but she doesn’t have enough faith in herself to not make it look manic. “I’ve not dealt with people personally damning me to hell yet. Yes, I’m a girl. Any other questions?”

Andrew thinks on it for a moment. He steps closer, and Aaron slips back, adjusting herself against the wall so he can sit on the bed without being touched, if he wants. 

He doesn’t sit, but he’s close enough that Aaron’s blurry eyes can make out the absolute fucking shag his hair has turned into. “Jesus Christ,” she says, instinctively. “My God—have you not…? No, of course you haven’t. I’m cutting your hair tomorrow.”

“No.” Andrew says, immediately.

Right. Matching. Well. Obviously, matching. That was already the plan. She’s not fucking dumb. “Trimming,” she corrects. “Your shit is a mess.”

A pause, and then, “... Tomorrow?” Andrew asks, tilting his head at her, and her eyes follow the way his hair truly does just flop to the side. Ridiculous, she thinks, how firm he was on keeping up with his hair before, and how instantly the care had vanished. She’s getting trims , but he seems to be leaving it to the wild fucking west. Hacking at it with a switchblade might be better than whatever the hell he’s doing.

“I’m not cutting your hair with a migraine, dickhead.” Aaron says.

“Thought you were fine. ” He says, and then—to her shock and fucking awe, call the presses, alert the masses, he sits. Shuffling onto the bed with her, while still keeping a good bit of distance. She assumes touch is bad today, then, which is fine with her. Body heat on her already sensitive skin might make her puke, or have a meltdown. Six feet for them both, or whatever.

Aaron huffs. “Rumors of my impending doom are greatly exaggerated. Rumors of the stress of finals are not.” She says.

That gets her something of a laugh. What a reward for her misery—acceptance and vague emotion. It’s like she’s on her deathbed, with all of the wishes being granted.

To be fair, if she had it her way, she would be.

“How long.” Andrew says after a moment, and Aaron closes her eyes, slumping against the wall behind her. The chill of it is both nice, and overstimulating.

“Since I’ve known? Years. Since I’ve been out? Few months,” Aaron says. “You’re still one of the first to know.”

Purposeful wording, and Andrew catches it, because of course he does. “Who else?”

Aaron shrugs. “The usual assortment,” she waves her hand around in the air. “Kate, the rest of our fucking gaggle, Abby. The usuals.”

Aaron can feel Andrew’s stare, even if she can’t see it. “ Neil knows?” Andrew asks.

Aaron nods, grimacing. “Neil knows.”

“But I didn’t.” Andrew says. It’s, oddly, not bitter. More amused than anything—which, yeah, but fuck you, dude—Aaron thinks she’d be bitter, if the roles were reversed. But they are not, and it’s Andrew, and Neil is something strange to him. A buffer, in a way, because he overrides so many of Andrew’s thoughts, he can barely comprehend new ones. 

It's usually aggravating, to some extent. She doesn't think it ever won't be. She's fine with that, forever dealing with a mellowed form of frustration. It's something good, technically, just not for her. She can bite her tongue when it comes to any serious critique. 

Aaron huffs out a breath. “You did not,” she says. 

“Why.”

“Fuck if I know,” Aaron says. It’s less word-y than I think I was scared, or I really don’t fucking know, and, again, with thousands of buried words between them? What’s a few more.

“Why are you here? This conversation could’ve easily happened tomorrow.” She asks, after a minute.

She’s not wishing that it did, as a matter of fact, she feels decently stupid for letting this go on as long as it did, but she’s not fully convinced this isn’t some weird, pain induced delusion.

Andrew huffs. “Kevin got drunk enough that he started crying.”

Aaron cracks her eyes open. Blinks. Colors twist and turn around her. Sort of like an arcade carpet, such vibrancy against the dark and dull backdrop that is her room. Once again, pain delusion is becoming more and more likely. “... What the fuck?”

“Nicky tried consoling him, but it was half-assed. They snuck away half-way through a pep speech and left me with him.”

Aaron would’ve done the same thing. “What the fuck happened?” She asks, instead, like she has a moral high ground. 

“I don’t know. He was having a fit.” Andrew says. There’s a certain lack of tone that does, in an odd way, ease Aaron. Andrew’s a dick—one that’s working on it, or whatever the fuck, a dick nonetheless—but he doesn’t like not being aware of things. A sort of watcher, even if he doesn’t choose to intervene. So if he’s here, then Kevin is fine, likely just going overboard and getting too lost in his own thoughts.

“What, did you sneak away while he was crying?” Aaron asks. It’s a joke.

Andrew’s phone dings. Andrew does not reply to Aaron.

The phone dings again. Aaron watches as he tosses it off the bed.

“ Andrew. ” 

“It’s very hard to enjoy your liquor when a grown man is murmuring incomprehensibly next to you.” Andrew says, like it’s any sort of defense. 

It is, a little bit, because she gets it, but that’s like, asshole-Minyard-gene inherencies. That doesn’t count.

“So, you chose to handle—whatever the fuck this was, instead of just… letting Kevin cry?” She asks. Andrew hums a note in affirmation.

“I could suffocate one of you if it got too annoying,” Andrew says. “And it wasn’t Kevin.”

Aaron rolls her eyes, flicking at his calf before curling back into herself. Andrew tries to hit back, raising a hand to pop at her skull, because he’s fucking depraved.

She grabs at his hand before it gets to her. “I will beat the shit out of you.” She says, and she means it. She hates this house and this room and this annoying fucking man next to her.

“Right now?” Andrew says, raising an eyebrow.

“If you try and smack me? Yes.” Aaron says.

“You started it.” Andrew says, impudently. He lets his arm fall back onto the bed, but doesn’t try to dislodge Aaron’s grip.

“Go fuck yourself.” Aaron says. She doesn’t let go, either.

It’s something. Some-fucking-how, it’s something.