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The harsh, electrifying sound of Fall Out Boy roared through your wireless headphones, loud as hell—loud enough to rattle your skull, loud enough that you hoped it might shake the fucked-up thoughts loose. The bass slammed against your ribs in time with your heartbeat as you paced the narrow stretch of your dimly lit room, steps sharp and restless. Back and forth. Back and forth.
You counted your steps without even realising it. Four from the door to the desk. Four back. The floorboards near the closet creaked every third pass. The LED on your laptop blinked once every few seconds—too bright, too noticeable. Everything registered. Everything always did.
The music filled every corner, but it didn’t drown things out the way it was supposed to. It layered on top of everything else instead—heartbeat, breath, fabric brushing your skin—stacking sensations until your chest felt tight, like your lungs were only working halfway. Like your body was refusing to cooperate out of spite.
Tears burned behind your eyes, swollen and heavy, but you refused to let them fall. Crying felt like losing. Like proof that you really were too much and not enough all at once.
The memory hit you without warning.
Your first driving lesson.
You remembered everything about it. Too much of it.
The way the seatbelt rubbed wrong against your neck. The smell of the car: cleaner mixed with old upholstery. The faint ticking sound from somewhere in the dashboard that you noticed immediately and couldn’t stop listening to.
Your father sat in the passenger seat, posture rigid, one hand braced against the door. His knee bounced. You noticed that too.
“Okay,” he’d said. “Just ease onto the gas.”
Your foot hovered. You were aware of the pressure before you even touched the pedal—how sensitive it felt, how little movement it took to change speed. The car lurched forward slightly. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Not like that. Slower. Relax.”
Relax. As if that was a switch you could flip.
You had been watching everything—the speedometer, the road lines, the distance between you and the car ahead, the sound of the engine changing pitch. “Look at the road,” he snapped. “Not the speedometer. You don’t need to watch every little thing.”
But you did. You had to. Your brain didn’t filter things down to “important” and “unimportant.” It took everything in at once and refused to let go.
“I’m just—” you’d started, then stopped, because explaining never worked. “You’re overthinking it,” he said, irritation sharp. “It’s just driving.”
Just driving.
Just focusing less.
Just being different from what you were.
Your hands had started shaking. You noticed that too—the way the steering wheel vibrated faintly beneath your palms. “You can’t freeze up every time something new happens,” he continued. “You have to get over that. Stop paying attention to every detail.”
As if that was a choice.
Now, pacing your room, that same helplessness wrapped around you like fog. You noticed the hum of the light overhead. The way your shirt twisted when you turned too fast. The way your thoughts kept looping back to the same points, voices sharp and insistent.
College. Adulthood. Responsibility.
All things that required doing things wrong on purpose—missing details, skimming, letting things slide.
You’re overthinking it.
Stop paying attention to everything.
Just relax.
Your breath hitched. The music stopped protecting you—it just added more noise to an already overloaded system. And then the dysphoria cut in, sharp and unforgiving.
Your father’s voice surfaced again, warmer this time. Proud. “That’s my girl,” he’d said once, smiling. “You always were so detail-oriented. Just like me.” Your birth name. Spoken like praise. Like a label he was proud of.
Your stomach twisted.
“I’m not,” you whispered into the noise. “I’m not that. I’m not your fucking girl.” Your hands curled into fists, the urge to hit something buzzing under your skin, but you didn’t. Your reflection flickered in the dark screen of your laptop. You noticed details you wished you couldn’t—the slope of your shoulders, the shape of your hips, the way your face didn’t line up with the way you felt inside.
Your brain catalogued it all automatically. No mercy. No filter.
“I just want to be a boy,” you muttered. “Why is that so fucking hard? Why can’t the world just… see the right details?”
Your body buzzed with restless energy. You paced faster, breath ragged, shoulders tight. Motion helped a little—kept sensations from piling up too high.
“Hey—hey. Slow down.”
Hands caught your wrists.
Warm. Steady. Different.
Rainbow Quartz 2.0.
You startled violently, yanking back. “Don’t—shit—don’t touch me—!”
Rainbow immediately let go, palms open. “Sorry,” they said quickly. “Didn’t mean to startle you, mister.”
“I’m fine,” you snapped. “I just—fuck—I just need a minute.”
Rainbow didn’t argue. They stayed. When they crouched down, they did it deliberately—putting themselves lower instead of looming.
“It already sounds pretty damn loud in there, baby boy,” they said, voice rough in a grounding way. “You don’t have to pretend with me, handsome.”
You turned away and kept pacing. You were hyper-aware of Rainbow’s presence now—their breathing, the way they shifted their weight. It didn’t feel bad. Just noticeable. They didn’t leave.
Your father’s voice tried to push back in.
See? You’re making this harder than it needs to be.
“I don’t want to be held,” you muttered. “If I stop moving, everything gets too loud. My head won’t shut up.”
Rainbow nodded once, taking you seriously.
“Yeah. I hear you,” they said. “Then don’t stop yet, darling. We’ll let the noise burn itself out.” “I hate this,” you said. “I hate that my brain won’t let go of anything. He always said I focused on the wrong stuff.”
Rainbow’s jaw tightened—not angry. Firm. You kept a watchful eye on them, ready to attack if they did.
“Noticing details isn’t wrong, champ,” they said. “It’s just how you’re wired.” You laughed weakly. “He didn’t think so.” “He doesn’t live in your head,” Rainbow replied. “You do, my boy.” You backed into your desk, thick thighs pressing against it. “If I sit down, I’m gonna fall apart. Everything’s gonna pile up.”
Rainbow didn’t rush you.
“Then let it,” they said quietly. “I’ve got the hands for that.” A beat. “You’re okay, angel. You’re safe with me, sweetheart.” The energy drained out of you all at once, like your system finally hit overload. You dropped into the chair heavily, breath coming out sharp.
The music cut off. Silence rushed in—too sudden, too raw.
Before panic could spike again, you switched songs. House With No Mirrors began to play, gentle and predictable. You focused on the rhythm. The consistency.
Rainbow nudged the chair. “Scoot over.” “I said I don’t—”
But exhaustion won. Rainbow picked you up, sat down, then pulled you into their lap. You ended up half-curled there, stiff and hyper-aware.
“I’m not relaxing,” you warned.
“That’s fine,” Rainbow said easily. “You don’t owe me calm, prince.”
They put on PJ Masks. Bright colours. Familiar voices. Your brain latched onto it gratefully. Rainbow’s arm rested across your upper back, steady and unmoving—like a seatbelt, not a trap.
Minutes passed. Five. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. “You’re shaking,” Rainbow murmured. “I’m not,” you said weakly. “You are, baby,” they said gently. “I can feel it.” A quiet huff of fond amusement. “Guess that means you’re human, handsome.”
The shaking faded.
“I feel stupid,” you whispered. “For needing this much help.” “Needing support doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you, precious,” Rainbow said immediately. “It just means you’re listening to yourself. That takes more spine than people think, my smart boy.” “When you relax like this,” they added later, “you look more like yourself.”
“Even like this?” you scoffed. “When I notice everything, and I’m panicking?” Rainbow smiled—warm, sure. “Especially then. You’re just a tired boy whose brain works hard.”
A softer addition: “My tired boy.” “I like it when you call me your boy,” you murmured. “Or anything masculine.” “Good,” Rainbow said without missing a beat. “Because that’s who you are—my prince. My sweet boy.”
The show blurred. Sleep crept in.
Rainbow noticed immediately. They paused the episode, lifted you carefully, carried you to bed, tucked the blankets just right, then slipped in behind you—arm secure, presence steady. You curled into them instinctively. Rainbow pressed a gentle kiss to your hair. “Sleep easy, handsome,” they murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And for once, the world was quiet enough for you to believe it.