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Bad days came and gone.
It was a sick sort of feeling; to not be comfortable in your own skin.
To feel the air enter your lungs, regardless of you asking it to or not, your too small ribcage expanding with each breath.
To feel your skin itch, but no matter how much you scratched, hit, or bit, the itch would never cease, laying under your skin, deep within your bones. A sick feeling pooled into his stomach, urging to claw its way up up up, out of his throat and into the world.
Bad days came and gone.
Bad days came and gone, and for desperately silly reasons too.
A chocked sob tore through his throat, a scratchy sounding thing, despite him having drunken water all day before.
Bad days came and gone.
And to think, all it took for the terrible ache he felt deep within his bones, was for a simple slip of Clementine within the confines of his own mind.
It was silly, he knew; Deadnaming yourself accidentally, not even out loud, but to yourself, should not cause him to spiral so much.
And yet it did.
A raging voice spoke to him in the back of his head. Whispering filth in his ears, further strengthening the pounding on his temples.
Are you even trans?
It’s fake.
It’s for attention.
You’re faking it.
You’re sick.
Trembling hands covered his ears, a pathetic whimper falling from his lips. When did breathing become so hard? When did it become a chore, and not just an involuntary thing that happened? Why couldn’t he breath?
It was from one moment to the next, a single moment that he couldn’t quite remember happening, that in the blink of an eye, he was curled up tight to himself in bed, to standing in front of the body mirror lent up against his wall, body shaking from the force of having to do anything but lay down and grieve.
Grieve for a body he will never know.
Grieve for a body he will never have.
Because he is not a boy.
I’m not a boy..
He stared at his figure in the long mirror. The way his t-shirt hung off his too feminine shoulders, pulling it up, only to slouch in his posture to avoid drawing too much attention to the way his chest didn’t look as flat as it should, but immediately wincing at the jolt of pain he felt run up his back.
He sucked in a breath at the realization that he had once again failed to take his binder off before he fell asleep the night before. Before he knew it, more tears were streaming down his face, leaving a trail of self pity in his wake.
A small whimper sounded throughout the room at the sight of his binder simply not doing its job. It’s not doing anything. He can still see them. He can still feel them. The sorrow quickly grew to frustration, the sick feeling pooling in his stomach spreading throughout his body in a jolt of movements.
To an outside eye, it may have looked something similar to the movements a toddler would make when throwing a tantrum, limbs flailing about as his shirt was ripped off of him aggressively, a frustrated grunt leaving his throat as his head managed to get caught in the rim of the thin fabric, but eventually, finding it’s way to the ground in a sad heap.
Frantic steps all but ran to the nightstand sitting calmly next to the dishevelled bed. The drawers were torn open in a fit of what one could describe as desperation mixed rage, clothes being thrown out and onto the floor, mixing and mingling as he frantically searched for the one thing that could possibly make it all better. A tornado would have kneeled to the sight of the boy’s bedroom floor towards the end, when, instead of relief, anxiety burnt a hole into his retinas and seared a gash into his heart, as he held in shaky hands, a binder he bought years ago, for cheap on Amazon.
It was his first one, he recognized. He never wore it. At least not anymore. It was far too small, his build not quite fit for it anymore.
But it had too much sentimental value, and he could never bring himself to throw it out, instead just leaving it at the bottom of a random drawer.
Disregarding any of those thoughts, along with every clothing item you could think of spilt onto his carpet, he frantically made his way back to his mirror, tripping in the process, surely skidding his knee, but he didn’t care. Taking a deep breath, and stretching around himself, wincing at the way the binder already fastened to his chest restricted his movements, but dismissing the pain that crawled up his spine in favor of getting the second, much smaller binder, wrapped around the first, sighing in slight relief through his tears at the somewhat loss of pain at having his back straightened back out.
With much effort, and many heaving, frustrated breaths later, both binders were fastened directly on top of each other, and he stared hazily at it, the fit he seemed to deem himself throwing coming to a brief pause as he examined himself.
He simply couldn’t tell.
He stumbled around the room in only his boxers, desperately searching for his previously discarded shirt, giving up after only a moment of searching, and just picking up a different one from his many options laid out on the floor, throwing it over himself, a shaky breath leaving him at the strain his back felt at the action, before darting back to the mirror.
He stared, front angle looking…okay.
He turned to the side, slouching a bit even as his back screamed in protest, pulling at the front of his shirt to at least attempt to make it look baggy.
It looked okay. It did, it really did.
But then he just… Stared.
For a lot longer than he probably should have.
Everything altered, everything spun, everything twisted, and suddenly, he wasn’t as flat as he thought he was not even a few seconds before.
No matter what he did, it just didn’t work. He’ll never be a boy.
The realization hit him hard, his eyes scrunching up as his chest racked with heaves and sobs, nails coming to claw subconsciously at his arms, holding himself tightly. The anger all but burnt him, leaving him a sobbing, scalding mess of grief once again, as he torn his second shirt off with an aggressive swing of his arms, not even flinching at the way his back felt like it tore in half, front screaming at the soreness of being so restrained.
He desperately clawed at his back, then to his front, banging his fist against his chest, his head, on the floor in a frustrated filled haze when he simply couldn’t get the source of his problems off.
It almost felt like ripping his heart out, taking his skin and ribs with it, leaving a bloody mess on the floor for all to see when he finally managed to get the binders off, leaving his chest bare, and his body screaming in relief, but his mind crying in anything but.
Desperate fingers clawed harshly at the fat sitting just above his heart, nails breaking skin and leaving sharp red in their wake.
He didn’t quite know when desperate clawing at himself turned to smashing his fist against his mirror, but one second the glass stood, taunting him as is showed him only the worst and most disgusting parts of himself, and the next second, the frame slammed into the floor, glass shards scattering about on the carpet.
If he wasn’t in such a state, he might have panicked about how he was going to get the glass out of the carpet, but right now, his headspace wouldn’t allow anything but self depreciation to slip past and into his consciousness.
His throat felt horse as he so desperately tried to take air into his lungs, but it simply just didn’t work.
Had he been screaming?
Maybe.
He can’t find it in himself to care, desperately latching onto the feeling of his nails carving into the soft flesh of his too big chest, begging, crying to the universe to get rid of it, get rid of the dirty feeling he felt anytime he looked or touched his body.
Hands slammed down onto his chest, frustrated, shaky hands. The sobs throughout the room barely even being acknowledged in his fit of dysphoric filled panic.
He’ll never be a boy.
It’s not fair. His mind whispered.
We did nothing to deserve this. He whispered back.
We were made from dirty blood.
.
.
.
It’s all our fault.
The movement on his hands stopped suddenly, and when he tried to pull back on the force, he found he couldn’t get away. Something was holding him back, but he simply couldn’t care enough to look and see.
It didn’t matter anyways.
A softness was laid out over his shoulders, letting him escape a chill he didn’t even know he was feeling. A pressure was placed above his too fast heart, a loud sob ripping through him at the comforting feeling.
”—th me?” A voice rang through his head. It was familiar in all the right ways, his mind screaming at him to listen, to follow.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced the dark behind his eyes to cease, trying and failing to look even straight in front of him as dark spots followed him out and clouded his vision.
A soft, gentle pressure was pressed under his eye, a swiping motion further coxing his eyes to slowly open, blinking a few times to adjust to his surroundings. Following his sight, came his hearing. As if a fog was blown away by the wind, his hearing slowly came back, leaving the muted static he felt behind. ”—my?” A voice called.
The one that soothed and calmed. Slowly, his head travelled up, watery eyes coming to gaze sadly, but hopefully, at the brunette, who was looking at him with so much patience, but so much fear.
”You with me, sweetheart?” The voice asked.
Wilbur asked. His mind supplied.
And it was like entirely new flood gates were opened. Tears flew faster, if even possible, out of his eyes, breaths stuttering at the sight of pure love, sitting in front of him, covering his view of the mirror, wrapping a soft fluffy blanket around his shoulders.
”Dad,” He whined, barely being audible, more sounding like a broken sob then anything, but the male in front of him still got it.
He got everything.
”Hey, doll. Hey, baby, hey, I’m here. I’m here, my love, I’m here.” He cooed, a thumb swiping under the blond’s eye, coming back wet.
Another broken sob tore through his body, leaving him a trembling mess. ”Dad,” He repeated, this time with more urgency.
”I know, love, I know. This one’s a bad one, isn’t it?” He soothed, a calloused hand pushing back his bangs as a soft kiss was placed on his forehead, causing another sob to rip through him.
His head was placed into the man’s chest, right above his steadily beating heart. He all but burrowed into the comfort, shaky hands gripping tightly at the fabric worn by the man who held him so so gently.
”Breath, sweetheart, just breath. You’re okay, I’ve got you. You did so well, sunshine, so well,” another kiss was placed into the crown of his hair, lingering softly.
He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, just holding one another, focusing on getting his breaths to slow. He didn’t mind it either, soaking up the soft muttered praises whispered into his hair every time he managed to breath slower, the gentle up and down motion of calloused fingers drawing shapes up and down his back further causing him to relax.
By the time his sobs turned to light sniffles, he was positively exhausted. He felt sleep weigh at him, his blinks becoming slower and slower. ”How’re you feeling, love?” A wobbly, but so impossibly soft voice asked from somewhere above.
The only answer he could give was a soft hum and a nuzzle into the man’s chest, who’s arms wrapped tighter around the smaller.
“C'mon, lovely, let’s get you dressed.” Gentle hands helped him sit up, a small kiss being placed to the tip of his nose, his cheeks being cupped by two hands, before he was left to his own devices for a moment.
He was, at this point, falling in and out of his own mind. He wonders if he’s disassociating.
It wasn’t very long that Wilbur was guiding sweatpants up his legs, his arms being pulled gently into the warm confines of a hoodie, smelling faintly of the pepperminty smelling cologne he used.
He distantly recognizes his Dad speaking. To him, or himself, he doesn’t know. It was barely registered in his mind when he was tucked into a broad chest either, being wrapped up in blankets that didn’t belong to his bed, in a room that he vaguely remembers to be Wilbur’s, a sugary scent about the air.
It was chilly, rightfully so, since it was in the middle of summer, the air outside melting. It didn’t bother Tommy. It just gave him more of an excuse to snuggle up close with his Dad, who was running fingers through his hair, a hand rubbing circles on his waist.
”You don’t know just how much I love you, sweet boy,” was muttered into his hair.
Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to respond, sleep tugging at him greatly.
”My boy, Toms, did ya know that? All mine.” He snuggled into the warm chest, a small huff of air he could faintly recognize as a laugh escaping the brunette above him.
He let his eyes slip closed, allowing his mind to simply listen to the soft voice above him, calming his mind and heart. “You did so well, my love, I know that must’ve been scary,” he cooed, calloused fingers coming to weave themselves through Tommy’s hair, scratching occasionally at his scalp.
“You will always be my son, my boy. You will always be mine, and I will love you for whoever you are, Toms.” A soft, lingering kiss placed itself onto his head, a whisper of “Whoever you choose to be.” flooding his ears, a single tear making itself known, running down his cheeks and dampening the chest he lay over.
“Only a few more months, sweetheart. Then we can get you some medicine to help you. Get you on T officially, start looking into surgeries. Only a few more months, darling.”
He nodded absentmindedly, snuggling closer, slotting his head into the crook of Wilbur’s chin, his dad moving to accommodate the new position.
“But until then, lovely, I want you to know, that you’re just as much of a boy now too. Just as much. My sweet boy, my baby,” a nuzzle was felt into his scalp, and he hummed contently.
Moments like these made him feel happy. Made him feel safe, made him feel loved.
He couldn’t ask for more.
“I love you, sweet boy. No matter who you are. You’ll always be my Toms and I’ll love you no matter what.”
A soft ache in his chest made itself known, doubt lingering in the back of his mind.
But he trusted Wilbur.
He trusted his dad.
So with a slightly healed heart, he whispered back, “I love you, Dad.”