Work Text:
He’s just told someone—the someone. Bob Reynolds, his weird, quiet, best-friend-since-forever someone—that he’s not Sofía anymore. He’s Joaquín now.
Bob didn’t even blink. Just shrugged and said, “Bet.”
And now they're pedaling down the street, bikes rattling under them, until they skid to a stop beside Bob's house. The back gate squeals, and Bob hushes it like it's a co-conspirator, then motions Joaquín to follow him.
"Shh," he whispers. "My dad's home."
The house smells like cigarette smoke, as it always does. Joaquín’s shoulders hunch without meaning to. Bob notices and grabs his sleeve, tugging him quick down the hall and into his room.
It’s a mess in here—comic books on the floor, bed half-made, drawings taped to the walls. Bob rummages through a drawer and comes up with a faded Captain America t-shirt and a pair of bleached jeans.
“These are boy clothes,” Bob declares, thrusting them at him. “Try ’em.”
Joaquín pulls off his school skirt and slips on the jeans, then slides the t-shirt on over the one he already has on. The shirt is a little too big on him, the jeans sag around his hips. He stares at himself in the mirror nailed crookedly to Bob’s closet door.
He doesn’t look like Sofía.
He smiles, turning back to Bob.
Bob grins back at him, wide and gap-toothed, like he’s just discovered the cure for cancer. “Told you. Boy clothes. Instant transformation.”
Joaquín laughs, tugging at the waistband of the jeans before hitching them up with both hands. “They don’t even fit.”
“They don’t have to,” Bob says, puffing his chest out like he’s an expert. “It’s about the feelings.”
"The feelings?"
"Yeah, the feelings." Bob repeats. "You're Joaquín now. Not Sofía. You should feel like it."
Joaquín looks down at himself again. The jeans slipping down his hips, the shirt hanging off his shoulders. He feels ridiculous. He feels amazing.
He hikes the waistband up once more and nods. “Yeah. I feel like it.”
Bob beams like the sun itself. “See? Feelings. Science.”
Joaquín laughs so hard he nearly falls over, catching himself on Bob’s desk. A pile of comic books tumbles to the floor with a slap. They both freeze, staring at the door, listening for footsteps.
Nothing.
Bob lets out a breath. “Okay. Phase two.”
“Phase two?” Joaquín frowns, still trying to wrangle the jeans into staying put.
Bob nods, deadly serious. “Yeah. You’ve got the boy clothes. Now you need the boy hair.”
Joaquín’s hand shoots up to his head. “What do you mean—?”
"Haircut," Bob said, like it's obvious. "Boys have short hair. Well, most boys have short hair."
Joaquín opens his mouth to argue, but Bob is already gathering up more clothes, shoving them into a backpack like contraband, and steering him toward the door.
They slip back out the squealing gate, grab their bikes, and head down the street to Joaquín's house.
When they get inside, Joaquín kicks off his shoes, heart hammering in his chest as Bob marches straight for the kitchen.
He grabs the scissors out of the junk drawer like a soldier arming himself. “Phase two,” he says again, waving them with gravitas.
“You’re insane,” Joaquín tells him.
"Correct," Bob replies, pulling him to the bathroom and patting a stool. "Sit."
Joaquín hesitates. But then he catches his reflection in the mirror: faded shirt, sagging jeans. And suddenly, he wants it. Wants it so bad it hurts.
He sits down.
Bob squints, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he lifts the scissors. “Don’t move. I’m a professional.”
The first snip is way too close to his ear. Joaquín squeaks, clutching the edge of the chair.
“Relax,” Bob mutters, sawing through a chunk of hair. “It’s coming out awesome.”
It’s not. It’s terrible. Uneven and jagged, one side shorter than the other, tufts sticking out like he’s been electrocuted. By the time Bob leans back with a satisfied sigh, Joaquín looks like he lost a fight with a lawnmower.
But when Joaquín finally opens his eyes and sees himself in the mirror again, his breath catches.
He sees someone new, someone real.
And he can’t stop smiling.
Bob is still standing behind him, smiling just as wide, scissors dangling from his hand like a trophy.
“There,” he says. “Boy hair. You’re officially upgraded.”
Joaquín can’t stop grinning at his reflection—even if it’s crooked and patchy and makes him look like he wrestled a weed whacker and lost. He runs his fingers through the uneven ends, heart buzzing.
“It’s… awesome,” he whispers.
“Duh.” Bob preens. “I told you, I’m a professional.”
The bathroom door creaks, and both of them spin around like guilty cats caught on the counter.
Mamá stands in the doorway, grocery bag looped around one arm. She takes in the sight—hair on the floor, scissors in Bob’s fist, her child grinning like the sun itself—and sighs.
“Robert Reynolds,” she says, voice flat but not angry.
Bob freezes. “Uh. Hi, Ms. Torres.”
She sets her bag down, pinches the bridge of her nose. "Sofía."
Joaquín flinches at the name, the smile faltering just a little. He opens his mouth, but the word catches in his throat.
Bob beats him to it. “It’s not Sofía anymore,” he blurts, louder than he means to, then softens his voice. “It’s Joaquín. We’re doing a— a transformation."
Mamá raises an eyebrow. "Mmhm," she says finally, and it's impossible to tell if she's about to yell or laugh or cry or all of the above. "Joaquín, huh?"
"Yeah," Bob insists, straightening his shoulders. “He’s—he’s Joaquín now. Not Sofía. So, uh… we fixed it.”
For a long moment, she just looks at them. Bob trying to stand between her and Joaquín like he can shield him with his little bony body. Joaquín staring at the floor, fists tight in the sleeves of that borrowed t-shirt.
“Well,” she says, after a long pause. “I guess we’re going to the barber tomorrow.”
Joaquín nearly bounces out of his chair. “Really?”
“Sí, Joaquín. Really.”
Bob’s jaw drops. “Wait, we're not in trouble?”
Mamá smiles softly, grabbing the scissors from Bob before he can lose his grip on them. “Not this time. But you’re cleaning up this mess before you leave.”
Bob salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
And as she leaves the bathroom, shaking her head, Joaquín turns back to the mirror. The haircut’s a disaster. But for the first time, he doesn’t see Sofía staring back.
He sees himself.
And Bob’s reflection behind him, grinning that gap-toothed grin, makes him feel braver than he’s ever felt before.