Work Text:
Looking in the mirror had always been odd.
She'd see herself, hair past her shoulders, stare into her own eyes. The disconnect was clear, but not a feeling she'd been able to name—just a little thing.
Something odd.
Maybe part of it is due to her past, the shit she'd had to endure as such a young child. Twisting the view of her body forever.
The thought makes her sick. Caviar shakes her head.
She'd never known anyone trans, or even *knew* what it was for a while. Not until her early teens, when she'd gotten a crush on a girl and started researching terms.
Gender got her confused in the coming months. Her body hadn't become an issue yet, she thought. Just exploration of different terms. Maybe she's not as much of a girl as she'd thought.
Labels come and go, small bursts of euphoria through the years as different terms are used. She'd tried packing a couple of times, saying it was out of curiosity and ignoring the rush of happiness in her chest, feeling bundled-up socks stuffed down her pants.
Then her body.
Oh, witches.
The size of her chest had come up in her insecurities before. Dysphoria? Unclear. Discomfort with it was clear, though.
But now it was worse. Violent thoughts. It scared her. This time there was no uncertainty. Clear dysphoria, knowing it felt wrong, wrong, wrong. Being called a girl, perceived as one, wrong. Fear chained her to keep her mouth shut for a while, but she needed something to change.
Slowly, they'd switched things up with their friends. Close ones. Trusting people with such a personal thing wasn't easy. Batshit terrifying. But they pushed through.
He'd come out. Changed some things. Started packing regularly, binding regularly. It feels right, but the fear of social perception still irks him. Snickers across the room make his heart sink. He knows the girl whispering is looking at him, knows she's said bad things about trans people. He doesn't want to hide, oddly proud of his identity. Yet hiding in shame at the same time.
Ridiculous.
It's okay some days. Walking with a flattened chest, the packer fit in its place. Standing with pride, shoulders back when he could remember.
But the bad days are bad.
Waking up, seeing his chest, and feeling utterly disgusted. Keeping his mind occupied in the shower to not look down, not look down. Feeling unbelievably feminine throughout his whole day. Slumped shoulders and anxious eyes. Researching HRT and surgeries for way too long. Usually, the shifts in comfort with his gender align with hyperfixating on it. Sometimes he'll curl up and cry, clutching his hair and wondering why he couldn't have just been born normal. Why he was broken.
Looping in his head, staring in the mirror, who is she? It's not him. The mirror is lying. This can't be true. He stares into his own eyes and pretends it's not him. Someone else. Distantly, he recognizes there's a good chance his whole thing with mirrors involves dissociating. But the thought is pushed away fast. Nope. Not happening. Don't worry about it.
Tonight is one of those nights in between. Not unhappy, not happy. Not content. Just there. Existing. Dread settles in his chest, and though he knows his chest has long since been fixed, to truly be him, his feelings of discomfort and uncertainty stay. Black Pearl lies at his side, he's surprised he's made it so far in getting her to open up. She's comfortable with him, mostly. Enough to share a deep secret of hers. One they share.
She understands the disconnect in the mirror, the feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong echoing through your head. Tonight, she can tell how he feels. Black Pearl has always been able to see right through him. She recognizes the signs, similar to hers but yet different.
He curls into himself, she lashes out. He'll open up relatively fast, she'll hide away until she shatters.
A hand comes to rest on his own, and he feels Black Pearl curl around his body and spoon him. The pressure of her body against his is grounding. Safe. Caviar inhales roughly, letting it out shakily. Her hand holds his. Tears roll down his face.
"C'mon, pretty boy. You're good," she murmurs into his ear, and he smiles. Caviar is the only one she wouldn't lie to.
Silently, he accepts that this is his life. No matter what happens, he will probably still have these days. Hiccupping sobs, hiding himself from the public eye. A proud captain reduced to tears over his own mind. But he's helped himself. It's possible.
Living is resistance. Living is proof you can't let it go.
This is him, and now he's okay with it.