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Being in the time of not knowing who you are yet, and especially if you’re going through things like dysphoria and are struggling with gender identity, it’s hard, really hard. You owned a binder, sure, but that wasn’t always an option. The trainings and exercises made it difficult to wear if you wanted to move freely, without punishing your bones for something that wasn’t their fault.
Camp offered only little privacy and the fact that you weren’t sure yet about your identity made it hard to tell people why you were as they said „a little off“ from your usual behavior. There was only one thing that had you grounded besides training and being with your best friend. It was probably the last thing you had expected when first coming to Camp Half-Blood. Half a decade ago you wouldn’t have believed that the wine-eyed god in Hawaiian shirts and a lifetime supply of Diet Coke at his disposal would be your harbor of comfort.
Mr D was the parent your actual godly parent couldn’t be for you. Sure, he could be an annoying bastard and oftentimes messed up you birth given name for fun but in a way this had grown on you, since you weren’t exactly happy with your given name anyway. So oftentimes you sat on the veranda next to the grumpy camp director who tended to care more than he liked to let on.
It was the usual morning in July. Other Demigods either out and about for training drills, or still in their cabins, waking up to the light of Apollo’s golden chariot pulling the sun across the sky. A few dryads were chasing each other across the dusty ground, upward into the direction of the forest, laughing as they passed by. From the forges near the Hephaestus Cabin hammering and the sound of metal on metal could be heard, like a wake up call for everyone who was still enjoying the comfort of their bed.
8:00 AM sharp you sat on the porch of the Big House, with a small bowl of strawberries, each fruit the size of the palm of your hand. Normally you’d be halfway through by now, but this time the berries sat untouched, the droplets from washing them sparkled on their soft red skin. Next to you the god of theatre shifted in his deck chair and let out a small grunt as he sat up, reaching for a can of Diet Coke. „Spit it out.“, he demanded gruffly, the sudden request jolting you out of your thoughts.
„What?“, you asked, confused as you sat up a bit from your slouching, but the second your shirt strained over the subtle curve of your chest, you quickly dropped into yourself again.
„Do you think I’m stupid, kid? I’m a god for the gods’ sake! I can tell by your nose that something’s up. So, please, for my crippling sanity, spit it out!“
You sighed, setting the bowl of strawberries aside so you could pull your knees to your upper body. It felt like hiding, despite you still being exactly in Mr D’s view, him still watching from under comically ugly sunglasses. You had expected this conversation for the past week, which didn’t mean you hadn’t dreaded it just the same. You opened your mouth to at least partially explain what was going on inside your head, but the words stuck in your throat and you shook your head.
For a long moment the deity said nothing, just sat in his tiger print Hawaiian and waited, When he finally excepted that nothing was going to come out of your mouth he took a deep breath in and nodded twice, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his godly nose and took the ridiculous glasses off. If you hadn’t been so busy, staring at the cracks in the white wood of the porch, you’d have seen the way his violet eyes flared a hue of gold for a brief moment. Molten like sunshine in his irises just before our favorite director of CHB cleared his throat and rubbed his hand across his chin, stroking a beard he didn’t have.
„Look, kiddo. It’s really none of my business, but it kinda is. But I’m not exactly as low on emotional intelligence as my brother Apollo and I can tell when somethings wrong with someone. And you look like someone has been putting salt in your ambrosia for at least a month now.“
These words shocked you. Not the message they carried but the way Mr D said them. The quiet, even soft tone in his usual gruff and grumpy voice was so foreign that you almost had to pinch yourself to make sure this was real. But before you could do any of that, the wine dude continued:
„Your shits go wider by the week and don’t think I don’t know that you’ve swapped your normal ones against the wider ones from the kiosk. I’m not judging you wanting to feel comfortable, but not talking about why you’re unhappy doesn’t make it up for yourself either, believe me, I know. I can at least try imagine what you feel right now when you look in the mirror-“
That’s when you interrupted him, suddenly everything you had coiled up inside of you broke free and began to spill out, your voice low and a bit strained with unshed tears that were prickling in your eyes like so many times before.
„I wish I were a boy. Not all the time, just sometimes.“, you said.
„I wish I could put on eyeliner and glitter and actually look good and have girls around camp whisper about me because I look like a character from their favorite book. And I wish I were a boy so I’d finally look cute in dresses and skirts and pants and suits. And I wish I my voice were deeper because everything I say sounds like it was meant to be said by somebody else!“
You took a breath, cheeks wet, you hadn’t even realized you were crying until now. Your throat bobbed for a second while you swallowed the lump beginning to form in your throat.
„And-and I don’t know what’s going on! I hate mirrors, I want a flat chest but don’t know if I’m actually trans!! I’m happy being me, but sometimes I wonder what I would be like as the opposite gender. If id finally be happy being me? ‚Cause I like being a girl…but-“
This time it was you who got interrupted, because Mr D had gotten up from his deck chair, got on his knees next to you and had pulled you into a hug. Every muscle in your body stiffened at the suddenness of the unexpected embrace. Mr D’s hand cradled the back of your head and pressed you against him, like something about to break in his arms. Then, you relaxed, like a puppet with its strings cut you slumped into his arms letting yourself be held for just a second before reality seemed to return to its normal state and the god of wine slipped away from you again and back onto his chair.
„Its okay not to know.“, he said with a small frown on his face, not out of disappointment but out of concern for your mental health.
„You have time, and figuring out your identity can be a really hard and draining process. The only thing that matters in the end is if you’re happy and that doesn’t come solely from finding the right label to slap onto your mortal days. That happiness comes from excepting yourself for everything you are. That might be hard to see right now, but I promise you, once you figure yourself out, everything will fall into place and you’ll know. For some people that takes longer than others. There’s no clock set for it.“
Silence followed. A long, stretching moment of absolute quiet that was as comfortable as it was awkward for you. This man -this god- who was such an asshole on even the sunniest of days, had just given you advice on how to deal with everything you were going through. You didn’t know what to say, luckily Mr D returned to his default state of annoyance and leaned back in his deck chair. „Now off you go. Breakfast, brat.“, he barked lightly and waved with one of his hands as a gesture for you to go now.
All you could do was say a quick „bye“ before a gust of wind shoved you down the veranda steps and left you to walk to the dining pavilion, mind and soul a little lighter than before.