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Anthony isn't sure why this time feels different.
He's worn dresses before. Onstage, offstage, in private with his knees pressed to his chest. Various kinds, too: sundresses, strapless dresses, nightgowns, and ones that zip in the back that he could never quite reach. His favorite had to be the Chrissy Cunningham cheerleader dress he wore onstage with Saosin a few years ago. He's on record, words permanently etched into magazine interviews, saying it was his favorite outfit he had ever worn. Up there, in a short skirt and rainbow leggings, he felt free.
As soon as he stepped offstage that night, Meredith had cornered him, telling him he couldn't do that anymore, they had children, what would people think, God, Anthony, why can't you ever be normal. The dress ended up balled up in a corner of his closet. All of the thoughts and feelings the article of clothing had sparked ended up alongside it, shoved far away where Anthony would never have to think about them again. He could pretend it never happened. If it would save his marriage, he would do almost anything.
But then his marriage fell apart, and Anthony found himself wandering down a path of self-discovery. So much of his identity had been tied to his wife, he almost didn't know who he was without her. He spiraled wildly for nearly a year, acting on levels of recklessness he hadn't experienced since he was a young twenty-something-year-old on heroin. Truth be told, the only reason he didn't go back to using was that, somehow, he had managed to develop a fairly good support system throughout the years. His friends caught him when he fell, crashing and burning and sinking into the throes of depression. They were there to coax him to the surface when he was drowning, tilting his head back to get air into his lungs when he choked on seawater. They were at his side through the worst of it, reminding him to eat, take your meds, change your clothes, remember to take out your contacts, take your meds again, sleep, be a functional human being. He needed them, on his worst days and on his best days.
It was Tucker that he had first confided in. It was simple, slipped out of his throat without restraint, with no regard for consequence, as most things that left Anthony's mouth did. Tucker had been scrolling Instagram, Anthony tucked into his side as he waited for his sleeping pills to kick in. A picture of Anthony at Hoodwink several years ago crossed his feed. Short black sequin dress, red boa, pink socks, sunglasses hiding messy eye makeup, blue panties that he couldn't help but flash to the crowd. He looked the perfect picture of camp. Anthony remembers putting it on—he had intentionally tried to make it look like a joke. It gave him an easy excuse, plausible deniability if anyone were to ask. Still, the feeling was there, the way everything felt right as he was up there, prancing around onstage in a dress in front of a crowd.
"I think I miss it." Anthony had said.
Tucker turned to look at him. He locked his phone, and Anthony missed the picture as soon as it was gone. "Miss what?" he asked.
"Y'know," Anthony shrugged. "Being...wearing that stuff." Being a girl died on Anthony's tongue, teeth sinking into the organ until he tasted blood.
Tucker hummed, considering the weight of Anthony's words. "You could do it again," he said nonchalantly. "There's nothing stopping you. You know we'd all support you if you did, right?"
Another shrug from Anthony. "I don't know. It's been a while. What if...what if I don't like it anymore?"
"Start small," Tucker had suggested. "Maybe just one of us. Hell, maybe just by yourself. Try it on, see if you like it. If you don't, you never have to do it again, and nobody has to know. If you do, maybe you wear it onstage again sometime. Whatever you want, Anthony. We love you just how you are...dress or no dress."
Anthony had gone to bed that night with a plan. He'd wake up early the next morning, find the closest department store, guess his size (medium, he was a medium, he knew it, he'd never forget it), purchase the first dress he saw, and run out of there as quickly as possible. The last thing he needed was to be recognized in the women's section of a store in small-town America. Suspicion about his divorce was already swirling online—he wasn't stupid, he's seen it—and he would have little response to the question what are you doing? He had to be careful. Somewhere deep inside of himself, he was terrified. A larger part of him was curious, determined, longing for the feeling he had left onstage in Garden Grove, California, the emotions he had buried in the back of his closet, still there in a home he no longer lived in.
He decided he'd start with Frank. Frank's seen his fair share of freak shit over the years. Even if he thought Anthony was weird, he'd never say it to his face. Anthony could overthink himself to death about what Frank may be thinking, but he'd never truly know, so he could convince himself it was all nice things inside Frank's head. Regardless, Frank would stare at him with big doe eyes full of love and adoration, and Anthony would feel just a little more okay under his gaze. Besides, Anthony knew it wouldn't be the first time somebody around him underwent a gender crisis. He knew Travis wouldn't understand—if anything were to come of this, he would be the hardest person for Anthony to tell. Tim wasn't talkative enough, he'd sit and stare and probably gape at Anthony until he squirmed under his gaze. Which was usually fine, but he was far too exposed for that in this state. Tucker would be amazing, kind and tender and understanding just as he'd been about the picture, but he'd ask too many questions. He'd ask how does that make you feel and Anthony wouldn't have an answer for him. Anthony's just exploring, he doesn't need to have all the answers right now.
Regardless, Frank was clearly his best option.
That's how he got here.
He clenches an Old Navy bag between his hands, staring at himself in the mirror, clad in only his boxers. He hasn't gotten as far as putting the dress on yet. He's scared. No, scared isn't the right word. He's just nervous. It's...it's been a while since he's done this. He wonders if things have changed. He was younger then. Young people make stupid, impulsive decisions. Young people...young people are wrong all of the time. It never felt wrong, but that doesn't mean anything. Feelings change. People change. He's not like that anymore. Well, no, he is, he's just been pointedly ignoring it for years. He has a life, kids, people to impress, an image to maintain. He's spent so long reclaiming his place in the public eye since he got out of rehab. He's finally being seen as more than just an addict. What's he going to be now? The trans singer? The hardcore vocalist whose voice is getting wrecked from hormones? The freak? Something to ogle at, point at, laugh at, make fun of, just a joke?
Maybe this is a mistake.
Nobody will know if he hates it. Frank's on the other side of the bathroom door, lounging on the hotel bed and waiting for him to come out. If he exits as he entered, in his sweatpants with tired eyes, he'll have all of the answers. He wouldn't mention it, and nothing would change, and Anthony would be fine.
But if it's not a mistake. If he doesn't hate it.
He doesn't know what he'll do. That's not a problem for right now. This is just an experiment. He doesn't have to feel any sort of way about it. He just...he just has to do it.
His hands are shaking as he undoes the knot in the plastic bag. He rips the tag off. He needs to move quickly. He can't risk changing his mind. He'll feel some kind of way once he has it on. Better, worse, the same, who knows? He won't know until he tries. He slips the garment over his head, the fabric blowing cool air over his thighs as it settles. Eyes screwed tightly shut, he takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can do this. He counts to six in his head before forcing his eyes to open.
There are tears on his cheeks that he doesn't remember shedding. Anthony wipes them away with calloused fingertips as he takes in his own reflection. For being something he picked in haste, the dress isn't bad-looking at all. The A-line neck plunges deep, allowing the top of his chest piece to show. It'd look good if he had cleavage. Anthony shakes his head to dislodge that thought. He's not ready to think about what that means.
Pale yellow fabric flows until it settles at his mid-thigh. His boxers poke out beneath the skirt, so he kicks them off. It adds to the cohesiveness, making it easier for him to sink into the fantasy. He should've known that a sundress would be the right choice. He shakes his hips to see how the item balloons out around his hips. He smooths a hand down his stomach, feeling the ridges in the fabric as he goes. He can't take his eyes off himself.
Fuck, he looks pretty.
A sob rips free from his chest. His head swims with shades of orange and red, comfort and contentment washing over him. He brings his hand to his waist, squeezing. He'd look better with some more fat on his hips, a softer jawline, tits, he wants tits, fuck, he'd look good with tits, less of an Adam's Apple, longer hair, he should have longer hair again, shouldn't he, a rounder stomach. If he focuses hard enough, he can almost see it. It's like he's transforming into a different person in front of his very eyes. He wants to be that person.
Anthony's heart races. He doesn't know why he ever thought he wouldn't like this. He still doesn't know what he wants to do with the emotion swelling in his chest. He doesn't have to know. That's a problem to figure out later. All he knows right now is that goddamn, he looks good in a dress.
This isn't camp. This isn't drag. This can't be passed off as anything else besides trying on a dress in a hotel bathroom. It's as terrifying as it is freeing. Anthony grabs at his chest, right over his heart, just to confirm that he's alive. He thinks this is the best one can feel sober on this side of heaven.
A knock on the door rouses him from his thoughts. He tears his eyes away from his own reflection with some reluctance. He's not ready to break the trance yet. Frank's smiling as he pushes the door open. Anthony smiles back. "You okay, baby?" Frank asks. "I heard you crying. Just wanted to check in."
Anthony doesn't speak as he meets Frank's eyes. He can't. He doesn't know what to say, and even if he did, he's not convinced he could get the words out past the lump of hot coals in his throat. Frank opens his arms, and Anthony crosses the few feet of distance between them. He sinks into his embrace, allowing Frank to link his arms around his midsection in order to keep him upright. He grasps at Frank's t-shirt, balling it in his fists on his back. His tears soak through Frank's t-shirt to his skin—he thinks fleetingly that he'd look better with mascara running down his cheeks. He shuffles that thought to the outskirts of his brain, on the shelf he's labeled Things To Worry About Later.
"Hey, you're alright." Frank soothes. "What's the matter? You don't like it?" Anthony shakes his head. It's not that. Fuck, it's so far from that. "What is it, then? Why're you crying?"
"I...I really like it," he sobs. "I think I look good."
Frank hums. "Lean back, honey, let me see you."
Frank's hold loosens enough for Anthony to lean back in his arms. Frank's eyes are shining bright as they take in Anthony's frame. Anthony feels a little exposed under his gaze, slightly vulnerable, but lets him look regardless. Frank won't hurt him. He still has his arms tight around him, he's still smiling at him like he's his entire world, and there's not a doubt in Anthony's mind that Frank will support him through this entirely, whatever this may be.
"Well, I don't think yellow is quite your color." Frank muses. "But you're right, you do look damn good."
Anthony turns his head to catch his own reflection in the mirror. Frank meets his eyes. There are still tears flowing down Anthony's face, but he has no other explanation for them besides overwhelming happiness.
A request rolls around like marbles behind his eyes. It's a lot to ask of Frank, and he's not sure how it's going to go, but he figures this is all about trying new things, exploring his biggest fears, figuring himself out.
"Can you call me a girl?" Anthony asks. The words struggle to break free past the tightness in his chest, but he manages, voice a little hoarse as he speaks. His heart is pounding, and he's shaking again, adrenaline and fear controlling him.
Frank shifts him around until Anthony's back is pressed to his chest in front of the mirror. His arms fall around his waist, tattooed fingers linking on top of his pelvic bone. Frank rests his head against Anthony's shoulder. There's a stark contrast between them, tattooed skin standing out against light fabric, but Anthony smiles at their reflection regardless.
"Look at you," Frank murmurs, words partially muffled against Anthony's shoulder. "You're so beautiful. My pretty girl, aren't you?"
Anthony's knees cave as the words register in his brain. Frank's steady behind him, holding him up when he falters. Anthony covers his face with his hands, crying into them as Frank kisses his neck. He leans back into Frank's embrace. He didn't expect to be so emotional over this. Something about seeing himself like this, imagining womanly features on himself—features he knows he could easily achieve through hormones and a few surgeries—feels right.
There's an ache in his chest as he meets Frank's eyes in the mirror. "Frank, I..."
He trails off. He can't say it. Not yet. Saying it makes it real. He's not sure if he's ready for real.
Frank nods, understanding. "This is like...a thing, isn't it? Like...like a gender thing?" He's a little awkward, but he hopes Anthony forgives him. This never seems to get any easier.
"Yeah," Anthony nods. "Yeah, it's a thing."
Humming, Frank kisses his temple. "Is...do you want to do anything about it?"
Anthony shrugs. The answer is yes, but he doesn't have it in his heart to say as much right now. His brain is spinning, whirling through a range of emotions that he doesn't have the names for yet. He feels overwhelmed.
"I think I need to talk to somebody," he says. "Like...like a professional."
"Okay," Frank hums. He's keeping his voice low, feeling the overstimulation radiating off of Anthony before he can voice his displeasure. Anthony drops his head back onto his shoulder. "I can set you up with somebody."
"You don't have to do that."
"You're dealing with a lot. Let me take some of that burden."
A fresh sob rips free from Anthony's chest, something coming unleashed within him. Frank's embrace is warm and comforting. He has him. Anthony's safe.
The words come tumbling out of Anthony's mouth in an unbridled moment of honesty. Vulnerability tastes like ash in the back of his throat as he sobs, "I...I think I'm a girl, Frank."
Frank manhandles Anthony, pulling him back until they're chest-to-chest, Anthony's head tucked under Frank's chin. "It's okay, honey." Frank soothes. "Hey, it's okay. We're going to figure it out, okay? I've got you. None of us are going anywhere. We've got you, Ant; we love you so much."
Anthony grinds his teeth. "I'm scared," he says.
"I know you are." Frank shushes, squeezing Anthony tightly. "It's okay to be scared. This...this is a lot, Ant."
"I don't know what any of it means," he confesses.
"You don't have to," Frank says. "We can figure it out tomorrow, or in six months, or in a year. There's no rush. This is all about you, baby. It's what you want to do."
Anthony sighs. "I have absolutely no idea."
"It's okay. We'll figure it out together." Frank reassures. "My girl, I've got you."
Anthony relaxes into the hold. He licks over his top teeth, trying to get ahold of thoughts that race through his mind.
His girl.
His girl.
He's got her. His girl. Her. Anthony. Her. Anthony? Her. His girl. He's got her. Anthony. His girl. His girl. His girl. His girl. His girl. Her. She. She. Her. Girl. His girl. Frank's girl. Girl, Anthony is a girl, Frank's girl.
She likes the sound of that.