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This is quite possibly the dumbest thing Logico has ever done.
Muttering under his breath, he readjusts the mailman hat over his usual hat, wondering for the thousandth time why he thought this would be a good idea—okay, he knows exactly why, he’d wanted to do a dramatic reveal. Irratino’s rubbing off on him, clearly, and not just because Logico’s been raiding his closet for these costumes.
But—it’s fine, whatever. He’s put more effort into this one than usual, with a different name and everything. Marzipan. Remember to respond to that. If anyone uses it. He won’t be surprised if no one does, it’s not like he’s going around with a hello-my-name-is tag and he doesn’t know his mailman’s name either, but he’d gone the extra length regardless.
Moving on to things that actually matter—here he is now, in the neighborhood of both a supposedly kidnapped orangutan and—apparently—where Earl Grey and Signor Emerald live. (Which shouldn’t have been too odd, Sacred Kidney had proven the suspects have lives outside killing people, but it feels weird and wrong. Like how a child might feel seeing a teacher outside school for the first time.) He’s seen Mrs. Ruby around a couple times too, skulking around near one of the bigger houses, and he’s certain she’s up to something but hell if he knows what it is. Something to figure out eventually, he muses to himself as he slides an envelope into one of the mailboxes on the long string of suburban houses that makes up the neighborhood. At this hour, the street’s deserted save for himself—dressed in a blue coat with such a high collar it hides the lower half of his face and a mail hat over his regular hat—and two teen girls heading up the sidewalk and chatting.
They slow down as they get close to him, and Logico’s eyes instinctively dart away, tugging the collar up higher. Can they tell it’s him? Sure, no one saw through him at Sacred Kidney, but he’s famous now—something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to—and maybe these girls have read his books, or seen his pictures, or maybe they’ll just be more observant than the elementary schoolers were—
“What’s with that coat in this weather?”
Oh. That’s probably a more reasonable thing for teenagers to think.
Logico turns to answer, but the girl’s head is turned to her friend—ah. She was asking her friend, apparently having forgotten Logico is close enough to hear her. “Cold?” the friend suggests, shrugging.
“Yeah, well, it’s sunny.” It is, but Logico has worn his trenchcoat in hotter weather. “And they look like they’re a spy.”
They?
“So? You can’t just walk up to them and demand to know why they’re wearing it.”
“But it looks so weird...”
The girls keep walking, and talking, but Logico isn’t paying attention anymore, mind still tripping over the they. He’s never been called a they before—between the sharp jaw and thick eyebrows and stubble it’s pretty obvious to anyone who looks at him that he’s male. Though...thinking about it, his hat and hair cover up the brows and the high collar hides the other two things. Does he look androgynous when you can’t see them? He wouldn’t know, he doesn’t look in mirrors often—unlike Irratino, he doesn’t care for his appearance (and before he met Irratino, he didn’t like looking in mirrors and being reminded of how unattractive he is). But now he’s sort of curious—maybe he can check his reflection in the mirror, see if he’d look at himself and see—
Logico blinks, realizes he’s been standing at the mailbox like a weirdo for the past he-doesn’t-even-know seconds, and the girls have left. Whoops. He stifles a chuckle—lost in your own thoughts again, Logico?—and starts heading to the next house on the route, making a mental note to not get so distracted in the future. It’s not like it’s relevant to the case. Besides, if no one knows his gender, he’s clearly done a good job disguising himself.
And if it keeps happening, and gets annoying, he can always just correct them.
“Mail Carrier Marzipan” has their job for three days before a cat’s food bowl gets stolen, an orangutan escapes from a mansion, and Earl Grey is arrested for hiring Mrs. Ruby to kidnap said orangutan. Also, the Detective Club acquires a new member. Specifically, the cat whose bowl was stolen.
It’s been a weird few days, that’s what Logico is saying. He’s quite happy to put all of that behind him, shouldering open his apartment door with a grunt and tugging off the coat before it’s even finished closing. He tosses the coat on the couch—he’ll get it back to Irratino at some point—and heads towards his room to get the case file logged.
It’s as he’s typing on his computer that he realizes—he never corrected anyone on the they/them thing. Oops. Must’ve slipped his mind. Oh well. It wasn’t as though it had been a big deal.
Once the case files are updated, it’s time to go to bed—at a reasonable time for once, which would thrill Irratino were he here. It’s the same routine as always, because it works and Logico is a creature of habit: getting out of his work clothes, showering, trying to tame his hat hair, giving up because even if he doesn’t think he’s the ugliest person on Earth anymore his hair resists all combs, catching sight of his own face in the mirror—
And stopping, and staring.
It’s...his face. Nothing special about it, on the surface. All sharp lines, slight wrinkles below the eyes right next to dark circles, strong eyebrows and stubble that’s never shaved away. Logico normally doesn’t pay it too much attention.
But now...
He tilts his head, angles it in various ways with a frown. It looks...not wrong, not really, but for some reason, it doesn’t look entirely right. Like a painting in a too small frame. Which makes no sense, Logico is hardly picture-worthy, but— His brow furrows, a scowl pulling at his lips. Damn it. Why is he thinking about this? What’s gotten into him? Now he’s going to be thinking about this all night and not sleeping after all. Irratino would be so disappointed.
Logico forces himself away from the mirror, shoves on an old T-shirt and shorts, and falls into bed, trying to nip that in the bud. He fails, spends half an hour trying to figure out what about his reflection had felt so off, and fails in that too before falling asleep.
(In hindsight, there’d been a blatant clue to that mystery—that back during his field work in the neighborhood, being called “they” had never felt wrong.)
A week has passed since then, the cat—plus the three kids Logico’s met—having become an official junior Detective Club member. After their permission slips came in, which, admittedly, Logico should’ve done before they headed off to Drakonia in search of a wannabe world conqueror. He’s not keen on letting that happen again—and not just because Olivia’s father had made it very clear in the postscript that if anything happened to his daughter on Detective Club business there would be a tragic accident involving at least five tons of TNT—but at the very least, everyone had made it out okay.
(Well. Save Apricot. And Eggplant, though from what he could glean from Mauve’s discussions, the poor man was at least still alive.)
But that was then, and this is now—on his Sunday date with Irratino, after Major Red had “killed” him with a pair of golden handcuffs in the private suite. (Logico isn’t quite sure how they and the ex-dictator had wound up on cordial terms, but he’ll take it, if only because the alternative is the ex-dictator still being mad at them.) They’re at a restaurant Irratino’s sworn his cards said was “better than mediocre”—which Logico believes, not because of the cards, but because Irratino takes poor Italian food as a personal insult—sitting at a table with a very nice dark red tablecloth and half a dozen utensils Logico doesn’t know the names of, glasses clinking and patrons chatting around them while candles bathe the place in soft light. Logico doesn’t believe in vibes, but he’ll admit, this place does have a nice atmosphere. Hopefully, the food’s as good as that implies.
(Hopefully, it’s good enough to distract him from the reflection he’s been puzzling over the past week.)
A waitress comes by to take their orders, and after getting Logico’s—he always orders the linguini, he wants to eat good linguini at least once in his lifetime and ordering it every time seems like a good way to do that—she turns to Irratino and asks, “And you, ma’am?”
Logico stiffens slightly, while Irratino just rolls his eyes—this isn’t the first time this has happened and won’t be the last. But somehow, for some reason, it’s twinging that part of Logico’s brain that had seen something not quite right in the mirror. “Not a ma’am,” Irratino informs her, voice dry as a bone.
The waitress blanches. “Oh—my apologies...sir...?”
“Sir, yeah—it’s fine, not an issue,” Irratino hastily assures her, and the waitress visibly relaxes—likely grateful to have not committed a faux pas too egregious. Logico’s shoulders, however, stay stubbornly tense as Irratino orders (Melanzane alla Parmigiana, good god, Logico was convinced Irratino only ordered the most complicated-sounding dishes to flex his Italian skills), and refuse to relax even when the waitress heads off.
Which Irratino notices, because of course he does. “Your aura’s in knots,” he says, eyes flicking to Logico. “What’s up?”
Logico is tempted to not answer and just point out that “aura” is just a mystical-sounding term for the electromagnetic fields and photon emissions that every living being gives off as a result of chemical and metabolic processes—but impulsivity briefly overrides rationality and he blurts out “Does it bother you?”
Irratino blinks. “Eh?” he says, tilting his head.
“I—” The words stick in Logico’s throat and refuse to leave. “I mean...being called ma’am. Sometimes. Does that...bother you? At all?”
“Awww, you’re thinking of my feelings!” Irratino cooes, clasping his manicured hands together in delight. “But no, not really. Bugged me a bit when I was a teenager, but these days, I just accept it. It’s a consequence of—” He leans back in his chair, gestures to himself with a flourish. “The vibe.”
“...uh-huh” is all Logico can say in response.
“‘Sides,” Irratino continues, sitting back up, “not like it happens often. I imagine it would be a hell of a lot more frustrating if it did.”
Logico can admit that’s a good point. “I...suppose I should be grateful that it doesn’t apply to me. In that case.” The words come out oddly stiff.
“Nope!” Irratino reaches out to flick his nose. “Your hair is criminally short. You know, you could grow it out a little, maybe get your ears pierced—”
“I cannot pull off long hair,” Logico deadpans.
“You haven’t even tried! For all you know, long hair could suit you perfectly and you just—”
“Would take a bit long to just ‘try’, Tino.”
“Logico—!”
The conversation falls back into its usual patter from there, bickering and flirting over Italian food and the kind of circles conversations go in between two incredibly stubborn people. And by some miracle or other, Logico gets through the whole thing without once thinking of the knot in his chest.
(If, when he gets back to his apartment that night, he looks at himself in the mirror and short hair doesn’t seem to suit him as well as it used to, that’s between him and him.)
It’s worth noting, at this point, that Logico’s view of gender, like many things, had been a bit narrow before college.
It wasn’t out of bigotry, not at all. It was just that his family had always had more pressing concerns than explaining these things to their kids (and the one Talk Logico had gotten growing up was incredibly short and assumed he’d be feeling those things about girls—which, ha, look at him now). School didn’t help much—boys who broke gender norms were basically bully magnets, and Logico had no desire to paint an even bigger target on his back. He’d been a keen study of a lot of things, but no one ever told him gender could be more complicated than “boy” or “girl”.
He’d been like that all the way up until college, when on the second murder investigation of his first day, Night had introduced themself as a they/them and he’d gotten hopelessly confused.
“That’s for multiple people,” he’d said like it was the most obvious thing in the world (and it had been, at the time). “You’re one person.”
Night’s lip had tightened. “It can be used for one,” they’d said, sounding defensive (it would not occur to Logico why they’d be defensive over this until later).
“No—it’s a plural pronoun. For multiple people.” (Logico had not understood why everyone had been staring at him like he was the stupid one.) “Again, you are one person—”
And so it had gone on. Logico had apologized after figuring out what he’d done wrong, at least (though, admittedly, he realizes he didn’t really give the Institute much reason to like him even before the whole mess with Irratino). But the point is, even before reuniting with Irratino and being able to soften his views on much of the fracas that was his college years, Logico would—begrudgingly—concede that learning feelings like his were normal was the best thing to come out of college. And it’s because he’s learned about those feelings that he knows, on some level, what these feelings are, and why he picks over his own reflection so much.
Of course, he ignores it, because he always does. Because it’s so much easier to ignore it than it is to admit you weren’t what you always thought you were, or try to untangle that knot when you don’t know where to begin.
What are you, Deductive Logico?
And god, he wishes he had an answer.
Of course, your gender identity turning into a tangled mess doesn’t stop murders from happening, and he and Irratino get called into the art gallery after the gift shop owner gets killed.
Four suspects this time—Baron Maroon, Secretary Celadon, Sir Rulean, and Mx. Tangerine. (Logico does not believe the universe had a will of its own, but if he did, he’d definitely think it was mocking him with Tangerine’s presence.) Logico gets the short version from the curator—scream, dead body, one of these four were clearly involved by virtue of being there—and then sets about investigating.
“Always wondered what’s with the trenchcoat,” Celadon muses from behind him as he’s dusting a vase for fingerprints. Logico fights the urge to sigh—even though he and the suspects are on better terms now, at least compared to what they used to be, they still have a marked tendency of talking about him like he’s not in the room and can hear him. “Like, who do you think you are, a Midnight protagonist?”
“Has he always hidden his face with the collar?” Rulean pipes up, and Logico blinks—ah. He hadn’t actually realized he’d been doing that. “What, is he trying to be a pulp detective now, too?”
Maroon snorts. “Maybe he’s finally realized how punchable his face is.” Logico winces at that—okay, yes, he’d been kind of terrible to all of them before the whole ancient ruins escapade had forced him to reconsider his entire worldview, but sheesh. “Or this is like his bangs and his brows but wilder—”
“I guess I can kinda get that,” Tangerine mutters. “Not liking how you look, an’ all.”
Okay, maybe the universe does hate him, because way to twinge on the exact thing he’s been puzzling over. Whether he likes himself anymore, and if he doesn’t, why—
“Logico!” The door bangs open, and Irratino charges in, holding up a crystal ball with a gleam in his eyes. “They sell crystals in the gift shop! I scryed into one for the truth, and saw the words ‘Made in China’!” A pause. “Also, that a heavy painting was on the roof.”
Logico sighs, setting the vase down and making a quick check in his grid—Celadon’s fingerprints had been on it, so that was one weapon accounted for. “Roof it is, then,” he says, sliding his notepad into his pocket and tugging the collar of his coat up higher.
“Already on it! Oh, and for future reference—” Irratino whirls to face the suspects, and while his grin doesn’t waver, there’s suddenly a dangerous edge to it. “Peanut galleries on my partner’s appearance are less than appreciated! I would rather we not cause problems in the foreseeable future...” The grin sharpens. “Right?”
The suspects all blanch, then scurry off in different directions, nearly tripping over each other on their way out the room. Logico blinks in surprise—sure, he’s seen Irratino corral the Institute staff with zero fear and knows he’s burned down a slaughterhouse, but still—before murmuring a quick “Thanks”.
“Don’t mention it. Now c’mon!” Irratino dramatically points towards the stairs, like he’s an adventurer leading an expedition into an unknown realm. “The case will wait for no one!”
Logico nods, and the two start heading up the stairs, Irratino chattering away about something or other (some story involving Seashell and Raven and a swarm of bees) while Logico’s still lost in thought. He really needs to get over this. Or find some way to make it stop bothering him, but he can’t solve the problem if he doesn’t know what the problem even is...
Maybe he can—concede. Just a bit. Try using they/them for himself full-time, if only in his head. Maybe if that feels right, everything else will work out from there. Hopefully.
Irratino pushes the door open and eagerly steps out onto the rooftop garden, Logico trailing behind him like a particularly dark ghost. The roof is bathed in sunlight, spilling over white stone and colorful flowers, pigeons fluttering across the garden and occasionally pecking at the stone. Giddily grinning, Irratino skips to one of the wooden benches so airily he might as well have been fluttering himself, takes a seat, and scatters some breadcrumbs for the pigeons.
“You remember we’re supposed to be investigating, right?” Logico asks dryly, walking over to him with a raised brow. “Where did you get those breadcrumbs, anyway?”
“What?” Irratino blinks up at them innocently before his attention is immediately locked to the pigeons that have landed by the crumbs. “You don’t keep breadcrumbs in your pocket for emergency pigeon feedings?”
“You’re probably the only one who does that, Tino.”
“Well, more people should! See, I’m prepared and you aren’t.”
Logico sighs, the sound tinged with more fondness than they’ll care to admit, before turning to scan the whole of the rooftop. They don’t see anything suspicious from here, maybe hidden among the flowers... Breaking off from Irratino for a bit, they slowly circle the flowerbeds, as close as they can get without actually stepping on the flowers—not only would the museum fine them, but Irratino would never let them hear the end of it. They squint between the colorful blooms, trying to pick out anything out of place...
Aha. A flash of polished wood grabs their attention, and they reach out to haul the heavy painting out from where it had been discarded among the flowers. Yep, Irratino’s pattern of coincidentally correct guesses strikes again—and up close, they see a red hair lying on the canvas. Which means either Rulean or Maroon had to be up here, and one of them had the heavy painting; more for the grid, then.
“Found something?” Irratino asks, coming up behind them to peer at the weapon quizzically.
“Yep,” Logico confirms, angling the painting so he can see it better. “Exactly where your ‘crystal ball’ said it would be. And look—” They point to the red hair. “This means either Rulean or Maroon had it. Which means...”
“One of ‘em’s innocent!” Irratino declares, snapping his fingers. “‘Cause the murder occured in the gift shop!” He beams, clasping his hands together. “Good eye. I would’ve never caught that.”
“Did you forget your contacts again?” Logico asks dryly.
“Nope! An’ even if I did, I’ve got my glasses.” That was, admittedly, a relatively recent development; after Drakonia, Irratino had taken to bringing his glasses on every case in the event something similar happened and he needed to take his contacts out, because about the only thing worse than running around a war-torn country was running around a war-torn country half-blind. “I just mean...” He pauses, then his face turns sheepish as he twiddles his fingers. “Well. I mean. I’m not good at the whole logic thing, you know that.”
Logico raises an eyebrow as they get to their feet, sliding their notepad back into their pocket. “You did it pretty well when I was kidnapped.”
“Yeah, but that was an emergency!” Irratino exclaims, waving his hands around. “This is, like, normal murder stuff! Normal murder stuff, I just have to consult my cards or crystals and hope they’re sending the right messages—”
“Tino, don’t say that,” Logico says, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “You’re better at the whole...emotions and lateral thinking parts. I’m better at deductive reasoning.” The corner of their mouth quirks upward. “It’s why we’re a team.”
Irratino blinks—once, twice—before his face splits into a grin, usual pep regained in an instant. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.” He giggles, and Logico releases his shoulders, letting Irratino twirl in place. “I do all the esoteric stuff, you do all the logical stuff, and both of us are like ‘oh, wow, look how cool my boyfriend is! Isn’t he so cool?’ And everyone’s happy! Well, ‘cept the guys who go to jail, but they don’t count—”
Logico giggles before they can stop themself, warmth blooming in their chest; they don’t condone flirting on the job, but Irratino has this way with words that makes it impossible not to be happy whenever he does it. Besides, as immature and...well, teenager-y as it sounds, they can’t help but enjoy it whenever Irratino calls them boyfriend...
Their smile slips, face going blank.
“...what?” Irratino asks, now looking concerned (because of course he notices, because despite his claims to the contrary he’s too damn perceptive for his own good). “What’s going—”
“Nothing,” Logico mutters, pulling his coat tighter around himself and heading back to the stairs. “Murder to solve. Let’s go.” Dammit. Dammit. He shouldn’t have been— if he really is outside the binary, then why does being called Irratino’s boyfriend make him feel—
He gets through the rest of the investigation in record time, bolstered by his sudden desire to be anywhere but here right now—Mx. Tangerine, cup of poisoned tea, gift shop—and doesn’t even wait for them to be led off before hurrying out the front door, getting the first cab he can find and spending the whole ride staring at his lap.
It— it hadn’t felt wrong, being referred to as male. Or thinking of himself with they/them, but— none of it feels right. Not entirely. Not all the way.
Dammit.
What’s wrong with him? Who even is he?
(How is he supposed to know that?)
In his tiny shoebox apartment, Logico lies facedown on his bed wishing he could stop thinking.
If he didn’t think, he wouldn’t be thinking about this. It wouldn’t be bothering him so much, wouldn’t be some impossible puzzle where the box is too small. He muffles a groan into his pillow—why can’t all of this just make sense? What is he doing wrong here? Part of him wishes he really had corrected them back then with the mail carrier disguise—but would it really be correcting when not even he knows what’s “correct” anymore?
The doorbell ringing briefly snaps him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Logico?” Irratino’s voice floats in through the front door. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” Logico isn’t sure Irratino can even hear him, given his face is still buried in the pillow.
“You don’t sound okay.”
Apparently, yes. “Go away.”
There’s a pause, during which Logico wonders if Irratino actually went away—before he hears the distinct click of a lock opening, and the equally distinct sound of the front door swinging open.
Oh. Right. Irratino has a key. Darn.
The bed shifts as his partner sits down. Logico doesn’t raise his head, or acknowledge Irratino’s presence outside a muffled “mmmpgh”. “Logico, be honest,” Irratino says, and while Logico still doesn’t look at him, the concern in his voice is clear. “What’s going on?”
Well. No use hiding it now.
With a groan, Logico turns over so his face is no longer buried in the pillow. He’s exhausted, and miserable, and knows it shows on his face, with a tired frown and dull, dark eyes. “I don’t know what I am anymore,” he mumbles.
Irratino frowns at that, eyebrows creasing in concern. “Could you...please clarify?”
Logico falls silent, realizing then he doesn’t know how. All of his thoughts and feelings feel like they’ve been thrown into a blender, mixing into something that he has no idea how to start describing. How to put into words something this complicated.
Start with the facts, he reminds himself. Start with what you know for sure, and go from there. He takes a deep breath, sits up, and begins. “Do you remember...back with the junior detectives, when I was recruiting them?”
Irratino snorts. “How could I forget? You kept stealing my clothes.”
Logico himself laughs a bit at that, but it’s weak, and dies quickly. He clears his throat. “Well—back in Buster and Clay’s neighborhood, I was the mail carrier, and—I guess it was a covering outfit, or maybe people just didn’t notice my face, so everyone called me they.” He shrugs, as best he can when lying in a bed. “Didn’t correct them. Thought it would make the disguise better, if people didn’t know my gender. But...”
“But?” Irratino prompts—though the tone of his voice, and the way his eyes slightly widen, tell Logico he already knows the answer.
“...but it...” Logico hesitates again, searching for the right words. “Didn’t feel wrong,” he settles on. “Being called that, I mean. I didn’t mind it. And then...going back to just he, it...” He looks down at his lap, fiddles with his fingers. “It didn’t feel like me anymore.”
The silence that follows feels heavy.
“I—” Logico’s voice catches, and he clears his throat. “I tried just they. In my head, I mean. Wanted to see if it fit better, like for Tangerine and Night, but...” He wrings his hands some more. “It didn’t feel right either. Even though it was fine back then.” He lets out a long sigh, slooowly falling back onto the bed with his eyes closed. “So—as stated earlier, I—have no idea what I am anymore.” He tries to keep his voice calm, say it like it’s just a fact of life. Like part of him isn’t terrified of what this means, of what’s beneath his surface.
He’d thought he’d figured himself out. Finally stopped repressing things, finally came to terms with who he was. What does it mean if he hasn’t?
Before his mind can really spiral down that line of thinking, though, the mattress shifts again. Logico cracks an eye open, and then has to fight down a blush because Irratino’s climbed on top of him. “Can I ask some stuff?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Uh...” Logico awkwardly clears his throat, sincerely hoping he doesn’t sound too flustered (seriously, brain, not the time). “Go ahead.”
“Does being called he feel right?”
“...” Logico has to take a moment to think about that. He’s been a he his whole life, he’s only really started questioning it now, but—it’s never actually felt wrong. “Yes.”
“Does being called they feel right?”
“...yes.”
The silence stretches a second too long for Logico’s comfort, and he hurries to explain. “I— I mean, neither of them feel wrong, it’s just that using them doesn’t feel all the way accurate and— well, accuracy is important— not that either’s inaccurate, it just doesn’t—”
“Feel right using just one?”
Logico blinks. Irratino smiles, somewhat smugly, resting his chin in his hand. “Got it in one, didn’t I?” he asks. Logico mutely nods, wondering how the hell Irratino consistently manages to condense complicated things so easily.
Irratino sits up, resting on his knees, and Logico pulls himself up to sit against his bed’s headboard. “Logico,” Irratino says, and there’s...not exactly a weight, but a genuine note to his voice that causes Logico’s heart to feel like it’s stilled, “you know you can use both, right?”
Logico opens his mouth—
—and remembers, belatedly, that he knows someone who uses both, and more than that, Irratino knows someone who uses both. “...oh,” he says instead of whatever he was going to say, feeling extraordinarily stupid now.
Irratino snickers. “I’ll be sure to tell Cloud you forgot they existed.”
“Ha,” Logico says, fixing him with a flat stare, then shakes his head. “But—it’s not the same thing, right? Cloud changes what they use based on the day, sometimes they is correct and sometimes he is, and I...” His voice stalls again, because suddenly the feelings—that neither feel entirely, completely correct but neither of them feel wrong, that he doesn’t feel completely connected to being male but not completely disconnected either—seem too big for words again.
“That’s how Cloud feels,” Irratino says, cutting through the worries. “That’s what their identity is.” He gives Logico a soft smile, reaching out to gently take his hand. “It doesn’t have to be yours.”
Logico looks down at their clasped hands, not sure what to say to that.
“Some people use different pronouns based on the day, or how they feel, or something else entirely. Some people prefer certain pronouns most of the time, but are open to other ones. Some people just plain don’t care what you use for them.” Irratino shrugs. “It’s all up to preference. And what feels right.”
Logico’s now staring at him. “You...know a lot about this, huh,” he says, so he can put off thinking about that for a bit longer.
“I had two moms, was crushing on boys by second grade, spent all of high school in the queers and allies club, and pretty much my entire friend group is some kind of LGBT.” Irratino shrugs again, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Would be weird if I didn’t know this stuff.” He removes his hand from Logico’s, pinwheeling it a little. “Actually spent a week in senior year thinking about my gender identity.”
“Really?” Logico asks.
“Hey, I’m not exactly the most gender-conforming guy on the planet, I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it some more thought.” Irratino pauses, then gives a sheepish smile. “All I learned was that I was a guy who liked long hair and painting his nails.” Logico tries to stifle a giggle and only sort of succeeds, which makes Irratino laugh a bit. “But that was me. This is you.”
Logico’s smile drops, and he looks down at his lap again. “I just...” He fidgets with his fingers, swallowing hard. Why does this have to be so hard? “This is big. And I’d rather not...jump into it. Without being one hundred percent sure.” He looks up at Irratino, whose gaze has softened into sympathy. “Does that make sense?” he asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds.
“I can see that.” They fall silent, for a bit, the only sound the clock ticking in the hallway.
Then, Irratino’s eyes light up, and he snaps his fingers. “Okay, how about this—trial period.”
Logico blinks. “Huh?”
“Trial period. We use both for a few days. He/him and they/them. You work out how you feel about it, and...” Irratino shrugs again, a light smile on his lips. “We go from there. Sound good?”
Logico thinks about that. And thinks some more. And the more he thinks, the more he finds himself liking the idea. “That...could work,” he says slowly.
“Yes!” Irratino cheers, clasping his hands together, and the corners of Logico’s lips twitch upwards, because Irratino’s happiness is contagious. Or maybe that’s not the only reason. Maybe it’s because—well, it’s the same kind of feeling they get from their grids. Like the answer’s finally come together.
“Probably should’ve talked about this with you earlier,” he says, softly chuckling. “Would’ve made things a lot easier.”
“Eh, this stuff isn’t easy to talk about. Especially not for you.” Irratino pokes Logico in the forehead, leaving them sputtering to defend themself. “Mr. Completely-Repressed-Coll—” He stops, eyes widening, then pulls back, looking extraordinarily awkward. “Wait. Wait, should I— should I not say that? Mr.? Is that not okay? Do I—”
“Tino.” Logico holds up a hand, and Irratino quiets in an instant. Logico gives him a reassuring smile. “You’re good. I don’t mind.”
Irratino visibly relaxes. “Oh. Okay. Good to know.” The two sit in silence for a moment, before Irratino pokes his forehead again. “So, do you think maybe I could convince you to grow your hair out now?”
Logico sighs, a fond sort of weariness creeping in. “And here we go again,” he mutters.
“It’s a serious question!” Irratino retorts. “‘Sides, no harm in experimenting with presentation a little! Maybe paint your nails?”
“Maybe.”
“Get your ears pierced?”
“Possibly...”
“Shave?”
“Yeah, no,” Logico deadpans. “I’m pretty sure if I did that I wouldn’t recognize me.”
“Neither would I. But it’s still an option!”
Logico huffs, continuing to fight back a smile—if they don’t, Irratino will take it as a sign to be even more Irratino-ish—before a thought occurs to him, and he hesitates. “Does this...change us?” they ask, knowing how out of the blue that is but also needing to know.
“Huh?” Irratino’s head tilts to the side, mouth turning to a quizzical frown. “Why?”
“I mean...” Logico waves their hands around, trying to find the right words again. “I don’t...I mean, you’ve made it very clear your preferences skew towards men, and I don’t even know if that’s what I am so if I decide I’m not—”
“Oh,” Irratino says, mouth twitching—is he trying not to laugh? “That’s your concern? Logico, Logico—” He leans in, placing his hands on Logico’s shoulders to look him square in the eye. “I couldn’t make a single relationship work for years because of how hung up on you I was. I sent you anonymous hints before even telling you my name. I helped you out when I was furious at you over the house arrest thing and literally almost got my head chopped off to rescue you from Drakonia.” He grins, bold and bright. “You think something as simple as a change in pronouns is gonna get rid of me now?”
Logico stares, and stares—and then stifles a snort, because yes, put like that, the anxieties are very silly. “Guess not,” he says.
“Exactly! And hey—” Irratino shrugs. “I can always just expand my sexuality to ‘guys and also Logico’. If, you know, that works for you.”
“Oh, making an exception for me, I’m honored.”
“Excuse you, I made an exception for you back when we started dating, I usually don’t go for men so stubbornly logical—”
“Didn’t you crush on me for literal years?”
“You crushed on me first!”
“You can’t prove that!”
“I don’t need proof, I have VIBES—!”
And perhaps unsurprisingly for anyone who knows them, the conversation from there descends into bickering about crushes, and college relationships, and whether Logico fantasizing about touching his hair before even knowing Irratino’s name was creepier than Irratino stalking him to send him anonymous hints long after Logico forgot he existed—and throughout it all, Logico’s smiling despite themself, because this feels right. Right in its entirety, not half-right like before.
Because to go back to that earlier analogy—the frame finally feels like it fits the picture.