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Ford has never quite been secure in his body. Since his first memory formed– a cute girl on the playground running from him screaming because he dared to try and touch her with his mutant hands– he’s had a bit of a complex. But that was only the start, the first reason to be insecure that had manifested itself to Ford early on in life. It was puberty that really solidified him as a freak in his eyes, as well as the eyes of his peers.
At his and his brother’s yearly doctor’s visit after turning eleven, his doctor examined him closely, then went to his mother in the waiting room to tell her he was a “late bloomer” (followed by an, “if you know what I mean,”), nowhere near quiet enough to keep from everyone else in the room hearing her– which his brother teased him about relentlessly on the car ride home, thankfully stopping before they got home and their father could’ve heard. That solidified a new insecurity Ford hadn’t even considered since second grade when they caught a group of boys on the playground hiding behind the dumpsters to compare their, ahem , sizes– which they did not participate in, mind you (but did lead to his brother asking his mother why they were circumcised, and the look on her face gave him a good laugh).
But that had been the extent of it, really– his brother teasing him when the subject came up, or when he particularly pissed him off, and extra close monitoring of his general growth on his mother’s part as puberty approached. He wasn’t worried– his brother had already hit the very beginnings of puberty, and he was growing into those changes as easily as the tailored suits their mother boasted about being able to pre-order for their bar mitzvah next year.
And then they started growing.
It started slow and, more importantly, small, enough that Ford hadn’t been worried about it– his brother was experiencing something similar, though he had put on more weight than him alongside them, and they were twins (of course, he knew by now that monozygotic twins didn’t necessarily experience the same expression of genes– he’d learnt that early on due to his fingers, and an enthusiastic science teacher in intermediate school who’d used the two as an example when discussing the subject). As time went on, though, things only got worse– within the year, Ford had pushed past his insecurity and begged his mother to take him back to the doctor’s.
Gynecomastia , their doctor explained– Ford had explored Greek and Latin roots enough to know what that word meant, and what it implied– likely due to a natural hormonal imbalance. Their doctor reassured them that it was completely normal, that he would almost certainly grow out of it in a year’s time as his hormones settled and balanced out, then left the room within five minutes of having entered it in the first place. This didn’t comfort Ford as much as the doctor must’ve thought it would, considering the new school year, the first of middle school, swiftly approached, and all first years were required to take P.E.– and use the locker rooms to change before and after.
Ford “forgot” his gym clothes more days than he remembered that year, and convinced himself that every laugh he heard in his proximity must have been directed towards him– he developed a habit of tugging at the front of his shirt, just in case they were folded in such a way over his chest to make it obvious what he was hiding under them.
And, of course, he never grew out of it– in fact, if you were to ask him, they outgrew him . By the seventh grade, he was beat down enough to give in and let his mother go out and buy him a godforsaken bra– of the sports variety, with enough padding to flatten and on the edge of too tight. His fear of being caught worsened significantly, leaving him too terrified to wear anything even close to actually fitting him, lest the straps show through the fabric. Gym stopped being an issue, the coach telling him if he really wanted to keep pretending to leave his change of clothes at home, he could just do the regimens in his regular clothes– a compromise he must’ve not been expecting Ford to so readily accept with a “thank you” to top it off.
The doctor’s appointments continued, though nothing came out of most of them– at least, that’s what the doctors must’ve wanted him to think. Too often, they called his mother into the hallway to talk to her, and left him alone in the exam room. His mother would always come back with a solemn look, as if she had been given bad news, but would reassure him that everything was fine. Trying to access his own medical records was an uphill battle he eventually lost due to exhaustion.
The only thing of substance to come from all the visits was a prescription for testosterone, to be injected intramuscularly every other week for the purposes of encouraging more masculinizing changes he didn’t get during his first phase of puberty, and likely wasn’t going to get with the next. The needles were frighteningly large, and he had to get Shermie to stick him in the beginning– until Shermie insisted he learn to do it himself, since he was moving out soon– but he was assured the results would be worth it, and, perhaps naively, trusted the adults to know what they were talking about.
And in some regards, they were right. Testosterone filled out his body the way it had Stanley, covered him with hair, and allowed him to grow a sizable set of sideburns– but it never stopped the growth of his… chest, or enabled growth in… other areas. He continued the regimen through high school and beyond, even through the worst times of his life, but the changes he had taken the damn prescription for in the first place never happened. Perhaps that was on him, thinking a simple chemical could change him– make him less of a freak.
Of course, his doctor wouldn’t let him cancel the prescription, even after he turned eighteen, telling him that he just had to be patient– as if five years wasn’t patient enough. Ford eventually gave up on trying to convince them, and simply kept the little vials lying around, a steady supply for if he ever changed his mind.
Which came surprisingly in handy when he was roomed with Fiddleford McGucket– a brilliant young man who hadn’t always been a man.
Fiddleford was not the first Ford had ever heard of transsexuality, but he was the first experience with the concept that wasn’t accompanied by his father muttering under his breath and changing the channel. According to the engineer, he had been born into a family of girls– nine, to be exact, which made Ford want to faint, since he couldn’t even handle two siblings– and realized from a young age that he was different from his sisters. One summer, his momma shaved his head to beat the heat, and later, a new mailman had come to their farm and commented on what a handsome boy he was– as young as he was, he knew then what the difference between him and his sisters truly was. And after ten more years of insisting on himself, his parents couldn’t keep convincing themselves it was just a game or a phase he’d grow out of.
His family supported him the best they could– his parents picked a new name for him, his grandfather forged a few papers to allow him to continue school as a boy, and his sisters would glare daggers at anyone who challenged the notion. That said, the world around the family simply hadn’t caught up as quick, and Fiddleford was a man in all but hormones.
Hormones that Ford had an abundant supply of.
They got along just fine after that.