Archive of Our Own ^beta

Just a random day, really. Your place, sitting on the floor. You glance at your friend - he chose to sit on the bed - as he speaks and that's the moment you realize you don't have a fucking idea what he's rambling about. He stops talking, and you hope he doesn't notice your empty gaze.

You look away to your desk. He's used to it. He does the same. Autism and blablabla. You smile weakly.

You hear him scoffing.

You smile sheepishly. You know he doesn't mind. He should. You don't listen to him half the time. But he keeps speaking about random stuff, about things he likes. Video games, that movie he saw last week, this guy he met at the skatepark and probably other things you can't remember – because you weren't listening.

You follow his gaze, trying to get what he's mentioning. Because honestly, your room is a mess.

You look again at it, really look. He stands up with a sigh and grabs something. Ah. Yeah. Those. He holds them like they were dirty or gross or something.

You stare blankly at the piece of clothes he's holding. You finally look back at him, with a hint of blush on your cheeks.

He raises an eyebrow.

He rolls his eyes. You hate him sometimes. But he's your friend. Always there. So you can't hate him. In fact, you don't really hate him.

You blush harder.

You look at him like an idiot then look away, you gaze randomly setting on the window.

Silence. You look at him. He didn't actually said that, did he ? But he says it again. Is that a hint of anger in his voice ?

He throws you one to your face that you grab. You swallow and finally stand up, cheeks burning in embarassment.

His tone is upset but he calls you "guy", and it makes your chest does that warm thing. Gender euphoria, you've been told. Like when the salesman called you "sir" at the store, or when that old lady told you you were a "kind young man" when you let her your seat in that bus.

Anyways. You look at your friend. And yeah, he's right, you were about to say that. And you know a part of him agrees. Clothes don't have gender - or at least, they shouldn't. But right now, he seems to think otherwise.

You look away. Mumble.

He takes a step closer.

You look at him like he's stupid, so stupid.

He unfolds one and you feel like you're burning of embarassment. Of shame. It's one with a pink bow on the front and a stupid inscription saying "passion", with small flowers embroideries.

He narrows his eyes.

You both stay immobile for a good half-dozens seconds, gauging each other. You finally understand where he wants to get to. You don't move.

He looks at you, then turn to your desk, fumbling through your mess.

He looks at you, seeming really pissed off, then focus back on your desk, panties still clunched in a hand.

You clear your voice, trying to give you a contenance. He's rarely that... authoritary. You finally turn towards your closet and open it to grab your kilt. Your remember how once he told you you were good in it, but when you told him you were worried people would tell you'd look like a girl, he had grabbed you by the collar and said it wasn't a fucking skirt, and that even if you were wearing a skirt, people would know you were a boy.

So here you are. You unbuckle your belt and clumsily step out of your pants. You mumble.

You don't answer anything. You quickly put on the kilt and turn to him. That's when you notice his hands holding scissors and methodically cutting your panties. You rush to him, trying to prevent him from doing it, but it's too late. He glances at you, then moves to shove you some black shorts from a drawer. The bastard is here like he owns the room.

He looks at you right in the eyes. You know if he decides to take it by himself, he's gonna win. He's taller and stronger than you - even if you rationally knows he would never do such a thing. You grumble and take off your panties, grabbing the shorts and putting them instead. You fold your panties and he grabs them to put them in the bin.

He throws you a cold look. Ugh. You're not gonna say anything more, for your sake.

You nod. You don't know what he's gonna do (probably nothing), but you got the threat in his tone. You follow him outside the house.

You lower your voice even if the street is empty.

Then he smiles. He fucking smiles. That's the moment you understand he's really, really getting amused by the whole thing.

You give him a tap on the back of the head and he chuckles. He keeps walking, so you have to follow him. You silently walk for a few minutes, anxiously glancing around. You're almost at the shop. He glances at you and rolls his eyes with a sigh.

You grab his arm.

Your cheeks, already red, turn crimson. You don't answer anything. You rationally know he's right, but still. You both finally stop in front of an aisle. You rub the back of your neck, uncomfortable. You whisper.

He grabs a pack, then a second one. He nods towards fancy underwears.

You shake your head frantically, making him hold back a chuckle. He pushes you towards the cash register.

And then he buys the clothes. Like if it was the most normal thing to do - well, it probably is nothing, but your mind shouts you you're gonna get arrested or something, or your bigots parents will mysteriously come right now to the store and-

You look at your friend. Breathe. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out.

And there you are. Out the store. No police. No parents. Nothing wrong. Because you didn't do anything wrong. Your friend grabs your arm and you let him, following him in a half-dissociated state.

He makes you sit on your bed. Opens one of the packs. Throws you one of the boxer briefs.

You look at the piece of cloth in your hands. Hesitant.

He turns his back to you and crosses his arms on his chest. You swallow. A minute passes. You finally stand up and pull down your shorts. You look at the underwear and step a foot in it, then the other, then slide it.

He turns. Rolls his eyes. Takes a step closer and starts taking off your kilt.

He grabs your arm and pushes both of you towards the bathroom. And you see him. Not him, you. In that underwear. Man underwear. And you feel that warmth in your chest. You swallow. He finally breaks the silence, and when you're looking at him he's smiling genuinely.

You look back at your reflect, blushing at his praise. He handles you your kilt and you put it on. He grins.

Manly as fuck, you repeat internally. Manly as fuck.

You turn towards him, briefly meeting his gaze. You don't thank him. What are you supposed to say ? "thank you for forcing me to wearing men underwear" ? "I'm thankful for you to be there and support me into feeling better" ?

You finally mumble, though the warm, wide smile on your lips betrays how much you like your friend.