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“I’m going to die alone,” Gideon lamented. “God hates lesbians. Hates me, specifically.”
Harrow didn’t look up from her homework, but she stopped chewing on her pen for long enough to reply. “God wouldn’t take time out of His day to torment you, specifically,” she told her flatmate. She set her pen down, belatedly realising that she’d been chewing on it, and added: “You’ve always had an exaggerated view of your own importance, Griddle.”
“Oh, fuck off. You know what I mean,” Gideon complained. There was a rustle of fabric, presumably as she flipped Harrow off.
Harrow didn’t bother to check. She knew what she would see: thirty minutes ago, Gideon had knocked on the door to her bedroom and asked if he could come in. He’d been lying on her rug ever since.
For a while, Gideon was quiet as Harrow worked, the silence only interrupted by the sound of him tossing a foam stress ball into the air and catching it absentmindedly. Then, ten minutes ago, Gideon had fumbled the ball and failed to retrieve it. She’d taken her jacket off and thrown an arm over her face, the picture of abject misery.
“It was one bad date,” Harrow said unsympathetically. “You’ll be fine.”
Gideon sighed, long and low like an old dog. “That’s the thing, though,” she said glumly. “It wasn’t just one bad date. It’s starting to feel like a trend.”
Harrow squinted at her monitor for a few seconds more before admitting defeat. Her specialisation in computer science had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she couldn’t focus on data structures through her headache. Never mind Gideon lying on her floor, freshly heart-broken and trying to make it Harrow’s problem.
She turned around.
“You want to talk about it,” Harrow said. It was less of a question, and more of a statement of resigned acceptance. She and Gideon were something approaching friends now. Usually (or so Harrow was given to understand), this entailed certain gestures of emotional support when called upon.
“Maybe?” Gideon hedged. “I’m still trying to process it myself, honestly.”
“The date?”
“The whole”—Gideon threw her arms in the air—“fuckery of it all. You know.”
“Right,” Harrow said, uncomprehending. She knew her flatmate had been dipping his toes into the dating pool lately, but he’d never really tried to bring up the topic with her. Possibly, this was because Harrow had even less experience with relationships than he did.
“It’s like people see my body, and that’s enough for them to make assumptions about who I am as a person,” Gideon said. “And I like being a role model for baby butches like Jeannemary, but I don’t like it when people see my biceps and assume I’m just a jock.” Gideon paused. Blew air through her lips, frustrated. “I took off my jacket at the restaurant tonight, and she assumed I was here on a sports scholarship.”
Athletics were a touchy subject for Gideon. Harrow said, “I’m sorry.”
Gideon shrugged. “Yeah, well. In the moment, I sort of laughed it off,” she said. For the lack of a stress ball, she twirled strands of the rug between her fingers. “I told her about my fucked-up knee, and said between that and starting HRT, I just play community kickball sometimes.” Gideon pursed her lips. “She’s on the cross-country team. It felt like I fell short of her expectations, somehow, when I said that.”
“You’re pretty good at kickball, at least,” Harrow offered after a moment.
Gideon snorted, probably at the idea the two sports were anything alike in his heart. “Thanks, Nonagesimus,” he said dryly. Angling his face towards her desk chair, giving her a small smile: “One day, Cam and I will get you on the field.”
“Over my dead body,” Harrow muttered, and folded her arms over her chest. Even Palamedes played kickball sometimes, despite his asthma, but Harrow would rather sit with Dulcie on the sidelines. She’d once been jealous of the older girl, and sat beside her only reluctantly, but it was fun to watch her cheer enthusiastically as Camilla absolutely dominated the field.
“That’s what she said,” Gideon said immediately. At Harrow’s wrinkled expression: “Oh, c’mon, I’ve been saving that one just for you! It’s supposed to be a Mary Shelley reference!”
“It still needs work,” Harrow informed her. How was Mary Shelley supposed to have sex over her own grave? Harrow didn’t want to consider the logistics. After a moment, half-dreading the answer, she asked, “Was the rest of your date… acceptable?”
Gideon grimaced, which said enough.
“Could’ve been better,” she confessed. “I had ‘she/he’ in my Tinder bio, but I guess she didn’t see it. Or maybe she thought it was a typo and I accidentally omitted an R? Either way, the waiter called me ‘sir’ when he took our drink orders and she tried to correct him, and it was just this… whole thing. Originally we planned to get gelato after dinner, but I bailed on her and told her my flatmate was sick, so I needed to go home and take care of her.”
Harrow frowned. “I’m sorry, Nav.”
Gideon waved her off. “Nah. It’s fine. I felt weird lying to her, but ‘if it sucks, hit da bricks’ or whatever.”
Harrow knew this meme, actually. Gideon had printed it out for her when they were first-year students. After he visited Harrow’s room for the first time and discovered that the walls of her uni accommodation were completely bare, he’d printed out every skeleton-related meme he could find and dropped them off at her seat during their anatomy and physiology lab.
Harrow had paged through them that night, looking for some hidden insult in their arrangement, before the sheer number of Skeletor and He-Man memes forced her to conclude there was no coded message. Gideon was just trying to make Harrow’s lab partner laugh, because no lesbian was immune to Coronabeth Tridentarius except Harrow herself.
The memes might still be in a box under her bed, actually.
“Well,” Harrow said. “It’s not technically a lie. I do have a headache.”
Gideon squinted at her. “Have you taken anything for it yet?”
Harrow regretted volunteering this information already. It was just a tension headache, and she got those all the time.
She could see why Gideon was worried, though: Harrow usually only bothered to mention her head hurting when she was curled up on the bathroom floor with a migraine. At that point, there was little Harrow could do except press her face pitifully into a towel and try not to throw up.
“No,” she admitted. “I was trying to power through and finish my assignment first.” She held up a hand, forestalling Gideon’s protests: “Yes, I know I should take the pain-killers when the pain is mild. I don’t need a lecture. I’m just out of paracetamol, and I didn’t want to interrupt my work to find some elsewhere.”
“I have some in my room,” Gideon said, then bounded off. She returned a few minutes later with an assortment of loose pain-killers in her hand and a glass of water. Harrow eyed them dubiously.
“Here you go,” Gideon said, pleased. She displayed her offerings like she was proffering a wedding ring for a proposal, complete with one bent knee (despite the way it creaked terribly on her descent). “Ibuprofen, paracetamol, and paracetamol with caffeine,” he announced. “The upside of horrible period cramps: I have a selection at your disposal, gloom mistress.”
“Don’t call me that,” Harrow muttered in reflex, although she was used to his nicknames by now. They hadn’t truly bothered her in ages. She accepted the paracetamol with caffeine and the glass of water. Gideon’s hands were very warm and slightly sweaty to the touch.
Harrow took a sip of water, downed the paracetamol, and watched out of the corner of her eye as Gideon slid the other loose pills into the front pocket of her jeans.
Harrow wrinkled her nose. “Gross, Nav.”
“You’re one to talk. You left me bread in a drawer one time.” Gideon sat back on the rug, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief as his knee extended again. “Also, you should probably drink the rest of that glass, too.”
Harrow sighed, but she took another sip. Admittedly, she was thirsty, but damn her for showing Nav the medication information sheet for spironolactone.
“You were sick, and your nightstand was covered with half-empty water bottles and used tissues,” she defended. “There was nowhere else to put it.”
“So you risked discovering my porn stash?” Gideon put a hand over her heart, mock-scandalised. “I’m wounded, Harrow. I would’ve shared my dirty magazines with you if you’d just asked.”
Harrow flushed. “I have no interest in your magazines.”
Gideon nodded solemnly. “Right,” she said. “Probably too many half-naked ladies in there for your taste.”
Despite herself, Harrow was curious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gideon stared at her. “Nonagesimus,” she said slowly. “We’ve been living together for two years, and I’ve never seen you express an interest in anyone, romantic or sexual or otherwise. Are you telling me you’re a—”
“Dyke,” Harrow supplied, right as Gideon said, “Lesbian.” They stared at each other for another few seconds, and Harrow said, “Yes.”
“Oh,” Gideon said faintly. “Oh my god. How did I—all this time?”
“More or less,” Harrow allowed. “I’m a lesbian. I’m also on the aroace spectrum. It took a while to figure the second part out, but Camilla helped.”
Gideon made a small noise of understanding. “When I saw Cam smiling at you in the kitchen one time—”
“Solidarity,” Harrow explained. “And she and Palamedes had just worked out their relationship with Dulcie. I was happy for them.”
“Sure,” Gideon said. “And when Ianthe tried to kiss you at the Halloween party last year, and you turned your cheek—”
“Ianthe was interested in me. I didn’t reciprocate her affections,” Harrow stressed.
“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” Gideon admitted. “Still. I can’t believe I didn’t know this about you. Shit, I could’ve been introducing you to so many cool alt girls.”
Harrow wrinkled her nose. “With your dating history? No thanks.”
She meant it as a joke, but it fell flat. Gideon looked down at the carpet, and Harrow’s stomach swooped at the clear line of shame visible in his shoulders.
She knew all of Gideon’s tender spots. Sometimes, she forgot not to press them.
“Gideon—” Harrow started, but Gideon shook his head.
“No. You’re not wrong,” she said hollowly. “Everyone wants a butch lesbian until they have a weird relationship with their gender. Or until they use a cane when their knee acts up. Or”—she laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound—“until they’re an orphan paying for uni themselves, because academic potential scholarships only go so far, and their coaches always assumed they’d play a sport.”
Harrow was quiet for a moment. “Real examples?”
Gideon shrugged listlessly. “No one has said it outright, but that’s been my impression so far.” His lips twisted, and Harrow ached to look at him. Softly, he admitted, “It’s been making me feel like I’m not good enough. That’s why I haven’t really wanted to talk about it.”
Harrow didn’t know how to describe the emotions that overcame her then. Lately, she’d felt more present in her body than she had in years, but sometimes, it was overwhelming. She could hardly think through the pounding of her heart in her chest.
“Well, fuck them,” Harrow declared, her cheeks burning hotly with indignation. “They don’t know what they’re missing out on.”
Gideon didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Didn’t deserve to have his self-esteem crushed by girls he was trying to impress, when he was the most genuine person Harrow had ever met. She certainly wouldn’t treat him that way.
“Thanks,” Gideon said, but Harrow could tell that her heart wasn’t in it.
“No. I mean it,” Harrow insisted. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “You’re wonderful, Gideon Nav. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”
It came out too earnest. Too vulnerable. Harrow looked away, searching her desk for something to fiddle with; but of course, Gideon had stolen her stress ball. And she didn’t want to keep chewing on her pens.
“Harrow,” Gideon said. “Are you—flirting with me?”
“No,” said Harrow miserably. Then: “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Huh,” Gideon remarked softly. He crawled under the bed and retrieved Harrow’s stress ball, setting it on her desk when he emerged, slightly dustier than before.
Harrow picked it up gratefully. Then, no longer able to tolerate sitting in her desk chair for this conversation, she slid to the floor, joining her flatmate there.
Gideon scooted over to give her more space on the rug. After a moment, he said, “Care to elaborate on that?”
Harrow focused on the stress ball in her hands. The give and flex of it, easy and familiar. There was a lot she could say right then—
I only understand love as devotion, and that’s too much for most people. I’m on four different medications that affect my libido, and I doubt I’ll ever want anyone to see me unclothed. I’m a spike of a girl re-forming herself into a new, more comfortable shape, but I’ll never find it easy to let people in without hurting them. I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.
—But in the end, there was only the truth.
“I don’t know what I want,” Harrow admitted. “Sometimes, I think I’ve made a mistake by allowing myself to want at all. It feels—monstrous.”
Gideon knocked his knee against hers gently. “Catholic guilt?”
“I suppose,” Harrow admitted. “But I miss the church sometimes. The rituals. The certainty that I was fearfully and wonderfully made. The sense of a higher calling, of belonging to a will greater than myself.” She paused for a moment. She was staring up at the ceiling, but she could still feel Gideon’s eyes on her. “I still believe in God, but I can’t pray to him the way I used to.”
Gideon was silent for a long moment, long enough that Harrow turned to look at her. “I know we don’t agree on a lot of things, religion-wise,” she said, and Harrow nodded. They’d had this conversation before. “But I don’t think it’s monstrous to want. I think it’s the most human thing you can do.”
Harrow’s mouth wavered, entirely without her consent. “I wish I felt the same.”
“So pretend.” Gideon propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at Harrow. Perceiving her. “Pretend I’m the daughter of God, and I love lesbians, and I quoted Mary Oliver and said, Harrowhark! It’s time for you to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. What would you do then?”
Harrow looked up at Gideon. She took in the wide, flat bridge of his nose. The cowlick in his red hair, sticking up at the back, freed from its carefully-gelled place by the friction of her rug. His warm brown skin, acne-marked and beautiful. Harrow knew he would be warm to the touch; and selfishly, she wanted the contact.
She closed her eyes. Sat up. Hugged her knees to her chest.
“Then maybe I was flirting with you,” Harrow acknowledged. “But I know you don’t feel the same way, and I’ll respect that.”
“Huh?” Gideon said, bewildered, and were Harrow’s feelings really so much of a surprise? Palamedes had been needling Harrow to say something for weeks now; but then again, he always liked to insert himself into other people’s affairs.
“You flirt with all your friends, even the taken ones, but you’ve never flirted with me,” Harrow said quietly. “I thought”—she hunched her shoulders, knowing this was an uncharitable assumption, but Gideon wanted the truth—“that maybe you thought of me as too much of a boy still. Since we met before I knew I was a girl, and it took me a year to commit to the idea of transitioning.” Harrow peered up at Gideon through her eyelashes, bracing herself for his reaction.
Gideon was just staring at her. Her amber eyes were piercing. “Harrow,” she said slowly. “I’ve been flirting with you since we were first-years. You think I’d let just anyone steal my hoodies? You think I’d spend hours assembling the Internet’s greatest skeleton memes for some girl I declared a rivalry with, all because she was annoyingly, effortlessly knowledgeable about A&P?”
Harrow swallowed. “But that was before—”
“Yeah,” Gideon said. He shrugged. “Sometimes these things are messy. I mean, I kind of caught the vibes before you did, but at the end of the day, you were still Harrow. And I liked Harrow.”
“...Huh,” she said, trying to wrap her mind around the edges of the thought. Struggling with the idea it could be as simple as that. It was only in the past few weeks that Harrow had dared to observe her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t know how to feel about the idea that Gideon had looked at her pre-transition self and seen Harrow anyway, even when she’d been privately adamant that she would stay in the closet forever.
“Yeah.” Gideon cracked a smile, but then it faded. “Not that I want to pressure you into anything. I mean, feel free to tell me to fuck off, Nonagesimus. I’ll go back to my room if this makes you uncomfortable.”
Oh. Oh.
Harrow hit Gideon on the head with the stress ball. “If you made me uncomfortable, I’d never let you lie on my bedroom floor to begin with,” she told him.
Gideon smiled at her tentatively. Harrow took a deep breath, and screwed her courage to the sticking place.
“If you’re asking, I’m not saying no,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “I’m just saying I’m not ready to be your girlfriend yet, or your partner, or whatever term we decide.” She swallowed. Dared to gently knock her knee against his. “That being said, I would like to give it a try.”
Gideon’s smile now was wide and slightly crooked. A dimple pulled at the corner of her mouth, and Harrow couldn’t help herself. She smiled back.