Work Text:
It was a sunny day on the soccer field.
Coach McGuirk was doodling on a clipboard. He looked like he was keeping score, but actually he was repeatedly trying (and failing) to draw a Stussy S. “Damn it,” he muttered, scribbling it out and starting over.
Brendon was sitting out as always. “Coach, can I ask you a question?”
“No.”
“But I — have a question.”
“Well, think of an answer, alright? I’m working, Brendon. I’m busy.” He scribbled out another failed Stussy S.
“If you, um — Coach? If you like kids so much, how come you don’t have any?”
“Who says I like kids so much?”
“T — ”
“What makes you think I like children? What makes you think I like kids? GINA, COME ON! DON'T JUST STAND THERE!”
“Well, it’s your...um, chosen career, so...”
“Oh, so — if I was a janitor, you'd just assume I like garbage?" spat McGuirk, pointing. "I don’t like children, Brendon. I don't have a choice. I gotta work. How else am I gonna pay my mortgage?”
“Um, mortgage? But you don’t have a house."
“Not yet. Exactly. Because I can’t afford a house unless I hustle my ass off. Makin’ bank. That’s why I’m a soccer coach. Alright?”
“Alright.”
“Why don’t I have kids? You wanna know WHY? Because I CAN'T, Brendon. Happy now? BECAUSE I CAN’T!”
“Emotionally, or...?”
“No. Because I’m trans. I’m a trans man," he muttered. "You know what a trans man is?”
“...nope.”
“Hm. Go ask your mom. She’ll tell you." The coach smirked. "You’ll probably have The Talk, too.”
“Is it, like, a nationality? Like, Czech?”
“No.”
“Trans man," Brendon thought aloud, tapping his chin. "I thought you were an Irishman.”
He snorted. “‘Trans man’ is not like Irishman.”
“Or, Dutchman, or - ”
“No.”
“ - um, Chinaman?”
“What t — Brendon! What the Hell! You can’t say — you gotta say Chinese Man . Jesus Christ, Brendon.”
He winced sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“Brendon you make me sick. Where’d you hear that bigoted crap? Huh? From your deadbeat father?”
“No, from the — um, Dr. Seuss.”
“Dr. Seuss,” grumbled Coach, crumpling the paper in his hand. “Dr. Seuss.” He tossed it onto the grass and started doodling on a new page.
Some whistling, yelling, and kicks were heard on the field, but McGuirk was too focused to care.
“So, um, what's Transylvania like?”
“No. It’s not a nationality, Brendon. It does have a flag though. And an anthem." He scraped the pen over the paper, then showed it to Brendon. "Here look. This is the trans flag. See, it's beautiful."
“It’s um, three...lines.”
“They're stripes, Brendon. COURAGE STRIPES.”
“Oh...very, um, 'avant garde',” murmured Brendon, hands in the air. “Very Malevich...a little Kandinsky, even?”
“Show some RESPECT, Brendon! Alright? Show some PRIDE, Brendon!”
“Sure,” stammered Brendon. “Rah, rah...trans, yeah....go get ’em.”
“We got a flag. Anthems. Neighborhoods. And passport problems. But it isn’t a country.” He went back to trying to draw a Stussy S.
After a while, Brendon wondered, “Transylvania is the vampires one, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“And Pennsylvania is the Quakers one.”
“Well, they’re both the vampires one. GINA, GET ON THE BALL! NO — NOT ON THE BALL — OH FORGET IT!”