Chapter Text
Taehyung has only ever told four people.
Four people in on the biggest secret of his life. His mother, his father, his eldest sister, and his manager, Hobeom. Four people with the power to expose and destroy Taehyung’s life with one foul secret; dark enough to hide from his youngest brother, who cannot remember the days of Taehui, pink dresses, long hair. Four people who know the depths of Taehyung’s past, the root of his personality, the source of his caution.
It’s only four people; how could it have gotten out?
---
Taehyung remembers the first day he started testosterone. It was like a party, but with four people, excluding his younger siblings Taekwon and Taeguk, who were seven and two at the time. They’d stayed home in Korea with the neighbors because flying was too expensive and stressful with them. He wished they could be there to celebrate with him, but also felt special, like this was a moment just for him. Four people, gathered around a table, smiling, laughing, and crying along with Taehyung as he’s handed a box with a small, sterile bottle inside of it.
Testosterone cypionate, 2,000 milliliters suspended in cottonseed oil.
The label said Taehui Kim, something he really wouldn’t be okay with normally, but that day was special, and the prescription was in English, so the novelty helped out with the misnaming. In fact, it wasn’t even disappointing that Taehyung would have to wait for the next day to inject the golden solution under the watch of his parents and their doctor friends, because on that day, Taehyung could finally see it. A little piece of his future, held in his hands. A reassurance that he would make it through life, grow up into the man he needed to be. The bottle was more than a prescription; it was a firm, leaping step in affirming Taehyung’s own identity and validity.
He cried the next day at the children’s hospital, too, and not because he isn’t fully numb when he’s cut open for a puberty blocker replacement.
---
No matter what Taehyung does, he can’t shake his nerves before a stage. Standing in the cramped, stinking halls of backstage, tightly packed with sweaty bodies and rushing stagehands, he feels like the fresh-faced trainee he was two years ago, jumpy with anticipation and anxious because he thought he peed his pants. (Really, he just hadn’t dried off his stand-to-pee packer well enough after washing it.)
Except now, two years since BTS’s debut, he feels stronger. He definitely looks the part, with a sharper face, deeper voice, and taller stance than the wiry kid that stood in his same lucky socks two years ago, but inside is where the most change lies. Deep next to his heart in a place between the faintly curving lines of scars, is the love of his fans, the unconditional support he receives every day, the knowledge that even though they may not know him truly, they think they know enough to love him. The paychecks, sent home to his family so that Taeguk can go to university instead of working off Taehyung’s own medical debts with his parents, who still refuse every cent.
Deepest of all is the camaraderie of his group. The way Taehyung flawlessly melds into them, finally an accepted member of something in his life that isn’t some sort of support group. Their support and acceptance despite his odd personality and sometimes abrasive moods means more than anything to him, and as he watches them work out their pre-stage jitters alongside him, Taehyung’s heart thumps in reminder.
“TaeTae.” Jimin materializes from the depths of a large rookie group beside Taehyung. “TaeTae, check your back. You’ve got something? Like, lint?”
Jimin’s face looks devilish, eyes crinkled and grin greasy, the first sign that a prank has been pulled. The second? A cameraman is beside him, filming with a wide smile. Taehyung isn’t surprised. He and Jimin do this all the time, though it’s usually on a hyung like Hoseok rather than each other. Feigning surprise, he reaches over his back to procure a hot pink notecard with ‘Taehyungie-noona!’ scrawled across it with several love hearts.
He can’t hide the initial shock, and the way his face falls, but within a split second, Taehyung is back to energetically chasing Jimin, yelling in fake anger and giggling in between until he catches Jimin and throws the dancer around somewhat violently. He’s in the midst of giving Jimin a false noogie (can’t mess up his firetruck red disaster of a ’do.) When he’s interrupted. Their manager’s voice cuts through the commotion as the older man shoves by one of the millions of Seventeen members running around to reach Jimin and Taehyung. “Let’s go; you’re on now. Move, move move!”
“What do you-” Taehyung is cut off as he and Jimin are practically dragged to the stage entrance, where Namjoon and the rest of BTS wait, the same curious, nervous looks on their faces. “Why are we-?”
“Another group got stuck in traffic. You’re on at the end of this performance.” The stagehand melts away into the throng of sweaty backstage bodies before Taehyung can even register his words.
Taehyung stares anxiously onstage, watching from behind as a boy group he doesn’t recognize does their routine. They look young, like he was at debut. But tall. Confident. Masculine.
Taehyung averts his eyes, suddenly feeling dysphoric as a pelvic thrust move makes Hoseok laugh beside him. Their jerkiness is the source of Hoseok’s amusement; they dance like young boys who just learned what grinding was (probably the truth, judging by their young faces), but Taehyung can’t miss the way their pants bulge.
Definitely real. Taehyung is almost tempted by a phantom reflex to reach down and check his packer, but he catches himself. It isn’t there. He’s not allowed to pack during performances anymore, not since his dick slid out of the holster and down onto his thigh. That was a hard one to cover up.
Still not wanting to look onstage, Taehyung attempts to cheer up a young Seventeen member beside him, grabbing his shoulder and wishing him well. It’s Woozi, the one Yoongi likes to joke about, Taehyung notes. The smaller, stressed looking boy just gives Taehyung a wide-eyed look of panic, eyes darting between his phone screen and Taehyung’s face.
Taehyung’s smile falls, and he lets Woozi scamper away to his group, where they begin to whisper. They look at Taehyung, then back at each other, then again at Taehyung.
Bravely, one steps forward, brightly-lit phone screen in hand. Taehyung sees ‘Dokyeom’ emblazoned on his jacket. The young boy’s face, whom Taehyung barely ever sees other than between stages and in passing, is dark and solemn, an expression he has never seen before.
“I, uh…” A phone is shoved near Taehyung’s face, and more of the group comes behind Dokyeom, flanking him with undisguised curiosity written across their faces. “I-Is this you, sunbae-nim?” He asks, voice almost too quiet to hear. Taehyung moves, reaching a hand out to hold the phone in order to read, but Dokyeom backs away, almost as if Taehyung is a virus. Taehyung cocks his head to the side; the younger group has always been at least friendly with Bangtan. Nevertheless, he squints, reading the new article despite Dokyeom’s imperceptibly-moving hand.
The first thing Taehyung sees is a picture of himself. He can’t be more than sixteen in the photo, surgical scars fresh as he stands shirtless in front of a graffitied transgender flag with one of his friends, face blurred out and unrecognizable. His smile is wide, beaming, even, with the newfound freedom to be shirtless. It’s undebatably Taehyung, even though the chubby face lacks the masculine lines Taehyung has gained through age and an upped testosterone dose.
The title makes his heart drop out of his chest.
“THE SECRET REVEALED: BTS’S KIM TAEHYUNG, TRANSSEXUAL?”
“This is,” Taehyung looks up, shocked, as the phone is put away into the hands of an anxiously bumbling manager. “This is just a rumour…” Taehyung tries to hide the way his voice shakes. He’s sure the younger can see the tears gathering behind his eyes.
“V-sunbae-!” Dokyeom is cut off. A voice buzzes in Taehyung’s ear telling him that BTS is to enter the stage, and he mechanically moves onstage to set up in position for Dope . His stomach feels like lead, yet somehow manages to flip enough to make him want to gag. He can see worry in Seokjin’s eyes when the older male notices him, but Taehyung flashes a weak smile and a thumbs up.
Just breathe. It’s nothing. Just a rumor . They have nothing .
They have something , that’s for-fucking-sure.
Taehyung tries not to let anything get in the way of his dancing, his performance. He really does, with all his heart.
But when he sees the audience whispering, looking at him with malicious eyes, it gets more difficult than anything he’s ever faced. Taehyung’s feet can’t feel the floor beneath him and he trips several times during the chorus’ quick footwork. Every cell in his body wants to run offstage, to hide and scream and cry over what he knows is happening yet wants so desperately to ignore.
He wants this stage to never end, too afraid of what will come after, what will happen to himself, ARMYs, and Bangtan itself. Taehyung’s heart squeezes in fear when the fanchant dwindles around his parts of the song.
You’re making this all up, TaeTae. Admonishing himself and his heart of contradictions, Taehyung resumes dancing, yanking a practiced sunshine grin onto his face.
He knows he’s fucking up the stage; his feet can’t get where he wants them to be for the complex footwork of Dope , he can’t sing with a level voice, instead pitchy and too breathless. Jungkook elbows him in the side when he passes, the dull pain a silent, throbbing bark of ‘Get it together.’
All too soon, they’re finishing the dance to the roar of the crowd, loud nonetheless, but not as intense as Bangtan is used to. Several times, fans catch Taehyung’s eye. Some look elated, grinning in ignorant bliss over what Taehyung’s just been exposed to be. Others, their fansigns folded and lightsticks powered off, frown at him, anger and hurt rolling off in waves as other groups fans share wry smiles and cackling jokes.
Taehyung wants to pick up Namjoon’s microphone as he is led offstage, yell and cry and ask what’s wrong , why his fans can’t truly love him like they say so often on SNS.
However, Taehyung does nothing; instead, he numbly stares at the changing, cracked concrete beneath his boots as he’s practically dragged to the back of the theater, not allowed any time to remove makeup or even change out of his sweaty, disgusting stage clothes. Manager Hobeom promises that the makeup noonas will bring all of the boys’ things, but still, anxiety rolls off of everyone in waves.
None of this is expected, none of this is the norm. Bring rushed offstage, away from angry fans and into the back halls of the performance center, bombarded by press? It’s unheard of. BTS are the up and rising stars of South Korea, loved by fans and press alike, always around until the last stage to accept the awards that they know are coming.
The difference is startling, Taehyung concludes as he’s led out of backstage and into the large halls of green rooms. Startling and sobering.
In the hallways, Taehyung sees several members of VIXX, standing together and cooling down after a performance. He doesn’t quite have the energy to smile, but it’s not needed. Wonshik, Sanghyuk, and Taekwoon all stare at him with unrestrained disgust and confusion, cutting Bangtan the widest berth possible when they pass in the hallway.
Taehyung doesn’t lift his head again. He’s too afraid.
Outside, even in the dark of the small road behind the building, press await. When they call Taehyung a girl, bombarding him with questions addressed to a Miss Kim that does not exist anymore, he doesn’t let them see the tears that fall down his cheeks, instead gritting his teeth and staring ahead he’s loaded into Manager Hobeom’s van.
----
Manager Hobeom stops the car in one of Seoul’s darker alleys, having driven long enough for Taehyung’s unexplained sobbing to subside into shaking breaths and rather gross sounding sniffles. He leans away from Jimin and Seokjin’s comforting embraces on either side of him, making eye contact with the manager.
“Taehyung has something he needs to say, before I let any of you loose on your phones.” Hobeom squeezes Taehyung’s shoulder, eyes soft and encouraging. It’s a look seldom seen, especially in Taehyung’s case because he’s such a wild card, but it’s oddly calming. The manager is a firm believer in tearing his kids down in order to build them back up, showing them nothing but sternness and a cold shoulder so that they’re forced to better themselves. The affection is nice, although unexpected. As soon as it comes, however, the kindness is gone, and the manager turns around in his seat, leaving Taehyung exposed with six sets of eyes staring at him.
They all share similar expressions. Fear, namely. But underneath, he sees curiosity. Irritation. Taehyung has obviously caused stress and bad words, shown by the press. He’d even managed to majorly fuck up one of their first performances of Dope.
“Spit it out.” Namjoon ventures, voice shaking despite the facade of nonchalance he wears. “Tae, we can all deal. If you said something to those Seventeen kids you were with earlier we can handle it, I mean, they’re spoiled as shit with a huge ass fan base already, but-”
“I didn’t say anything.” Taehyung chokes. “I swear, I didn’t! I’ve only ever told Manager-hyung and my family, I don’t know how it got out I just-” Taehyung stops himself. Breathe in. This is the moment when everything changes. This is the moment he is going to tell the six boys he's closest to in the world his deepest, oldest scret.
“Have you heard of the word transgender before?”
Namjoon’s eyebrows shoot to the roof, but he stays silent. Of course Namjoon would know; the leader is extremely hands-on in the LGBT scene. With his style of dress, Taehyung even presumed Namjoon to be questioning, or on the spectrum, but never asked. The rest of Bangtan, however, look confused, like Taehyung began speaking French. “That means I was born with a girl’s body, and that’s not who I am. I’m a boy, you all know that. So when I began to grow up, I got my first implant to block female puberty until I was fourteen, when I took testosterone and went through normal male puberty.”
“I…” Seokjin moves slightly away from Taehyung, hand retracting from where it was rubbing soothing circles into his back. Taehyung grits his teeth and pretends not to notice. “Taehyungie… I don’t understand.”
As if the dam has been broken by Seokjin’s words, questions come flying at Taehyung, too many to even respond to. Taehyung feels thoroughly overwhelmed, the claws of his well-hidden anxiety disorder crawling up into his system and taking hold over his heart, making it beat at least a thousand pumps a second. He chokes on his words.
“No, I mean-” Taehyung tries to speak up over the din of the bus, several people beginning to freak out over the threats imposed by Taehyung’s scandal.
“Hey!” Namjoon’s deep, slightly raspy voice, abused from being on stage, cuts through the car. He’s got the glare of a leader on his face, angry eyes blazing. “Calm down and listen to him. Seriously. We’ll deal with anything else later, but right now we need everyone to feel comfortable and knowledgeable about TaeTae and his condition.” He places a hand over Jungkook’s shoulder, silencing the maknae whose reddened face looks ready to either yell or cry. Taehyung doesn’t know what he would prefer.
“Yoongi, you look collected.” Hobeom comments, to which Yoongi rolls his shoulders.
“I am. I mean, sort of. I’ve, uh, heard of this? Before.” Yoongi’s voice raises in pitch, Daegu satoori slipping in like it does when the rapper gets anxious or angry. “I had a cousin. At home. She’s trans, too.” He licks his lips, eyes darting from Taehyung to Hobeom, and back to Taehyung. “Taehyung, how long have you known?”
“Since I was a kid.” Taehyung nods his head, appreciating the soft and gentle way Yoongi addresses him. “I just sort of… Always was a boy, and my parents knew it too.”
“And how did you get through school?”
“I’ve been stealth my entire life. I got on blockers when I was ten. They stopped my female puberty until I decided to take testosterone.” Sensing the next question on South Korea and it’s general hatred towards genderqueer people, Taehyung continues. “One of my dad’s closest friends has a transgender daughter, so like me but opposite. He’s coincidentally a doctor, a hormone one. He helped me get the hormones and blockers.” Taehyung laughs hollowly, trying to diffuse the mood. “Oh, yeah. Blockers are a little implant, in my arm. Jungkookie felt it once when he was trying to show my arms on a V broadcast.”
Taehyung takes off his jacket, rolling up a sleeve of his conveniently loose (chopped) shirt to show a thin purple scar on the inner skin of his left bicep, mostly healed because his last blocker replacement was just over a year ago. Jungkook blushes harder, leaning back into his seat like he wants to become one with the vinyl supporting himself and Namjoon.
Hoseok scoots forward along the aisle, planting his butt on the floor of the car between the front two rows. “I don’t get it, to be honest. Not at all.” He says plainly, tired, drooping eyes blinking heavily in Taehyung’s direction. “I mean, what are you?”
Taehyung bristles. “A boy. Just like you, but a little bit more medically dependent.”
“No I mean, how can you say that you are when you were born so… differently ?” Hoseok’s words, though painful to Taehyung because they come from one of the hyungs he is closest to, are nothing but earnest, with no malice hidden anywhere within the syllables. Hoseok genuinely wants to understand, so Taehyung will be kind.
“Imagine if you woke up one day and had a vagina.” Taehyung says bluntly. Namjoon snorts, and the rest of Bangtan looks shocked, but Hoseok is listening. “Imagine you had this nasty, ugly vagina, and massive breasts. And your abs, your shoulders, your jawline: gone. Replaced by a foreign body that you don’t think is yours. You’d still feel like a boy, right? Even if your body didn’t look it?”
Hoseok begins to nod, eyes widening like a student who finally figured out how an essay rebuttal works.
“You’d feel and be a boy, even though you had a vagina. That’s how I am.” Taehyung smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I know you have a dick from how often you forget your towel when you shower, but-”
“But, you’re a girl! You have a vagina, and you were born with it! You aren’t like Hoseok-hyung, or any of us, at all!” Jungkook’s shrill voice cuts through whatever Hoseok is about to say, surprising everyone because the youngest boy had been dead silent throughout the conversation. “You have a vagina, right? You just said it, and you can’t just whip out from nowhere that girls can have penises and boys can have vaginas and- and-!” He hiccups, eyes reddening. “And you’ve been lying to us?!” He looks like he wants to say more, tears welling up in his eyes even though his chin is jutted out in anger. Namjoon stops Jungkook, forcibly pushing him back against the seat and silencing him.
“I never wanted to.” Taehyung mutters. Seokjin slides out of the seat next to Taehyung, allowing Hoseok to take his place, eager to hug his dongsaeng and comfort him while Seokjin is hesitant, more reserved than normal. “I didn’t ask to be born like this, Jungkook. I didn’t ask to have to fear for my life every time I change backstage, every time I use a public restroom. I didn’t want any of this, but I have to deal with it anyways. It isn’t my fault that you can’t understand that.” Taehyung’s voice is deep, growly, and bordering on tearful. He’s only barely holding back from crying, sure that Hoseok can feel the way his chest convulses with suppressed sobs underneath his hands.
Jungkook visibly bristles, before muttering something under his breath and sinking back into the seat, irritatedly reaching for his earbuds until he realizes he hasn’t received his cell phone from the manager. “Manager-hyung, are we finished?” Jungkook asks, ignoring Jimin when he tries to reach over the seats to touch him.
“I suppose.” Hobeom replies after trying to make eye contact with Taehyung, and being refused in favor of the younger hiding his tears. “None of you are to make any post referencing this news. Post a selfie and thank ARMYs for coming to the music show. That is all you are allowed to do.” He levels his gaze with Jungkook, whose eyes gleam with defiance. “If you make a post about Taehyung, or even indicating that this news is the truth, we don’t know what will happen. Taehyung could be attacked, BTS as a whole could be put in bad light… We don’t know. So don’t do it.”
Phones are passed back, Taehyung reluctant to take his. Jimin notices, and takes the white Samsung from the bag along with his own iPhone. “Hey, TaeTae.” Jimin whispers when the car starts up. He and Taehyung have relative privacy in the front row of the bus; Hobeom is babbling on a wireless earpiece, Hoseok beside them is too busy taking selfies from every angle to care. Behind them, Jungkook and Namjoon are plugged into their earbuds, the former looking like his angry, teenage self and the latter looking somewhat sad, underneath a nervous exterior.
Taehyung looks at Jimin, trying to sniffle without sounding gross. “What is it, Jimin?”
He hates how weak he sounds; girly, and on the edge of crying again, fragile as an eggshell. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jimin treats him differently. The fellow twenty year old is the closest friend Taehyung has ever had, and though it’s unfair, Taehyung has higher expectations. He wants Jimin’s unwavering love and support, understanding quick as a finger snap. He wants Jimin to still treat him like a brother, insisting that they share a bed when Jimin or Taehyung has a nightmare, or even just because it’s more comfortable, sneaking into the bathroom to throw ice onto a showering hyung, practicing their pickup lines on each other…
It’s unfair, but Taehyung doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle any difference in Jimin’s brotherhood.
“Tae, I don’t really know what to say…” Jimin leans against Taehyung, letting his sweaty, limp red hair fall onto the younger’s shoulder. Taehyung’s heart squeezes in his chest, nervous and elated at the same time, because Jimin is snuggling him, Jimin still likes him, but what can he not say?
Taehyung tries to respond, but his voice comes out as a strained cough instead.
“I mean, it makes a lot of sense…” Jimin rambles sleepily. “Why you’d never let me get in the shower with you even when we were running ten minutes late. Why no one could share a stall with you when we had to change in the bathrooms when we were rookies… This is why you were always so scared whenever Hobi-hyung and I tried to snuggle you or take your shirt…” Jimin shakes his head a little, before swiping open Taehyung’s phone. He doesn’t have a lock because he’s too forgetful, though if he did have one, he’s sure that Jimin would know it too. Just like how Taehyung’s fingerprint unlocks Jimin’s own phone. “Let’s make a thank-you post together. I’m too tired to do it on my own.”
Taehyung smiles weakly, flashing an awkward peace sign while Jimin whips up a beaming grin out of nowhere, burrowing half his face farther into Taehyung’s shoulder. Pleased with the result, he types out a quick message and posts it to twitter.
“ Thank you thank you thank you for coming!!! Taehyungie loves you! Jimin loves you! ARMYs, we love you!!! Thank you!”
The first few comments roll in, asking about Taehyung and why he looks like he was crying. One even calls Taehyung unnie instead of oppa. Jimin shuts off the phone, stuffing it between his and Taehyungs legs.
“Tae, I’m sorry.” Jimin murmurs, rubbing circles on Taehyung’s inner forearm. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel bad, I’m sorry that you have to be so afraid, I’m sorry you ever had to feel bad about yourself around us…” Jimin hugs Taehyung tighter, and something wet soaks through Taehyung’s shirt.
Jimin is crying.
Taehyung reaches a hand out, raking Jimin’s damp hair away from his head and scratching his scalp soothingly. Jimin’s chest shakes against Taehyung, tears slowly subsiding into nothing. “Tae,” Jimin sniffles. “Tae, you have to tell me if I do something bad. I won’t forgive you if you don’t.”
Taehyung doesn’t know how to form words. It’s as if his ability to speak is swallowed up by his face-eating, beaming grin. Somehow, he chokes out, “Thank you, Jimin.”
---
Taehyung hopes that when the boys return to the dorms, exhausted and dragging their feet at nearly three in the morning, they’ll be too exhausted to talk much, and go to sleep without fussing over the article, or Taehyung himself.
Instead, he somehow finds himself in a standoff with Jungkook in the center of the cramped main room, the rest of the boys around them and expressing various degrees of concern. Even Yoongi is awake (although barely) and lounging on the couch to warily watch what happens.
“I think you need to sleep on the couch.” Jungkook grinds out, gesturing to Taehyung. “It would be improper for you to sleep in a room with Hoseok and Jimin hyungs and me.” Every movement is sharp, like Jungkook can barely keep himself under enough control to act slightly civil.
Namjoon looks ready to step in, mouth already open to put Jungkook in his place, but Taehyung shakes his head. Jungkook doesn’t look over his shoulder to see what Taehyung is looking at, never even breaks eye contact, actually.
No energy to fight is left in Taehyung’s body. Instead, softly, he tilts his head, unable to hide the pain in his voice and expression. “What changed, Jungkookie? I’ve always been me, so what changed?”
“You lied to me- us- before.” Jungkook replies. “It’s not- It’s strange-”
“You can sleep on the couch if you’re so uncomfortable.” Yoongi’s rough voice, angry and rich with Daegu satoori, interrupts Jungkook. “You’re being a fuckin’ asshole, maknae . Get back in your lane or sleep out here; I don’t care… I just want to sleep. I’m sure Taehyung does, too.”
Jungkook looks like he wants to say more, but a harsh shake of the head from Yoongi shuts him up quickly, and he shuffles into the room he shares with Hoseok, Jimin, and Taehyung to grab his duvet before dragging it back out, collapsing on the couch Yoongi vacates with a huff. He glares at his hyungs from behind his bangs until they disperse to their respective rooms.
Yoongi slaps Taehyung on the back, offering a warm, brotherly glance, before he disappears into his, Seokjin, and Namjoon’s room.
After taking as much time that’s humanly possible to brush his teeth and wash his face, Taehyung returns to his bedroom, darting by Jungkook. The boy is huddled up under his duvet, already snoring with a furrowed brow and look of tension on his normally peaceful face.
Taehyung’s heart aches.
“Taehyung.” Hoseok materializes beside Taehyung, back from brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink because Seokjin takes years in the bathroom. He looks vaguely uncomfortable, like he’s got something at the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t know how to say it.
“What’s up?” Taehyung, yawning, leads Hoseok into their shared room, where Jimin is already in bed on the bottom bunk of one set of beds which is pressed tightly against the wall to allow some light from a street lamp outside in through a small window. Jungkook’s bare mattress is above Jimin, seeming to eat up the sparse, yellowy light in that corner of the room.
Urging Hoseok to sit beside him, Taehyung flops onto his own bed, the bottom bunk of the second set.
“I, um…” Hoseok smiles sheepishly at his hands, pearly white teeth gleaming when he sits beside Taehyung and fidgets with his own sweatpants. “Can I see? Your scars?” His words are bumbling and fast, as if he wants them out of his mouth as quickly as possible. “I mean, you don’t have to; I’m just curious and-”
“Okay.” Taehyung cuts Hoseok off. “That’s ok. I’ll… I’ll show you.”
It’s Taehyung’s turn to be the nervous one; his scars from double-incision top surgery are purple and not yet faded, stretched too much from getting back into dancing too soon after the procedure. He’s self-conscious, more so than the usual jealousy over Hoseok’s abs or Seokjin’s shoulders. He’s afraid that showing Hoseok just how Taehyung is different that it will change his malleable impression of the younger for worse.
Jimin sits up, fully awake now and watching Taehyung with interest.
He’s never done this before. No one aside from his mother, sister, doctor and boyfriend have seen his scars, not even manager Hobeom or any of the makeup noonas. He’s scared shitless, trying to tell himself that there’s nothing to worry about now that his secret is out; nothing to hide now that there’s an understanding.
“I, um.” Taehyung clears his throat, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I got the, uh, surgery when I was sixteen. They had to do a bigger procedure because my blocker wasn’t replaced when it should have been 'cos of flight costs and legal issues, and I grew breasts for a little bit… I, uh, they’re purple.”
Jimin snorts. “We don’t care what color your scars are, TaeTae.”
Breathing deeply, Taehyung offers a shaky smile, before lifting his shirt off his body.
He feels naked, which he is, but… freer, too. Like a monumental weight of secrecy has been lifted off his chest along with his shirt. It’s laughable, how lame the three must look. Taehyung showing his bare chest to two boys, who stare intently at the puffy lines beneath his pectorals.
Jimin reaches out a hand, almost unconsciously, to touch the scars, hesitating when he catches himself.
Taehyung nods, and Jimin brushes a feathery finger along the scar. It makes both boys shudder, Jimin from the hard feeling of abused skin, and Taehyung from being touched in one of his most dysphoric, darkest places. It feels electric, like Taehyung’s been freed of his chains of secrecy through this simple contact to his chest.
The feeling dissipates, and Hoseok leans back. “I don’t know what I was expecting.” The older sighs, head on Taehyung’s pillow. “Maybe a black hole. Or neon green nipples. With eyes.” He laughs, rolling to face Taehyung and pulling absentmindedly on the younger’s fingers, tracing along his hands. “You look normal.”
Jimin returns to his bed, agreeing with the elder while Taehyung once again dons his shirt, detaching himself from Hoseok’s sleepy hold. The words make him bristle internally, spine straightening by a fraction.
They look normal because they are. My body is a normal body, I am a normal male. I’m just the same as you; my body is a male body because I am a male. Normal is a fake word that hits my heart like a knife.
He wants to yell the words; tired already of the micro (and macro, in Jungkook’s case) aggressions that have been directed at his gender identity. But he can’t. Never will. Taehyung lives in a fragile world, thin as feathered glass, and he has to tread like a ghost around his cis companions feelings and conceptions if he wants to live safely… Live at all.
“Yeah. Normal.”
He spits the words out like bad eggs before flopping into bed, covering his head with a pillow and all too aware that his schedule begins in four hours. Practice, schooling, and then a talk show.
It’ll be hell, he knows.