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Coming off the stage after a show always feels like coming down from a high. The lights and the darkness and the buzz of the crowd makes everything stronger, more amplified. The thrill of the theater is like a drug, to Tom at least. But sometimes, the fall feels so much stronger.
Tonight, for example. Tom steps off the stage, hand still wrapped around Luke’s waist, gently, discreetly. He pulls away, sticky and warm. August heat hits him in the heat of the old building’s changing rooms, muggy and thick. He flops down on the ratty couch, feet up on the coffee table. Everything feels wrong.
He’s been diagnosing the Fall, over these past few months, or even these past few years. He’s found a common factor, but the idea is so delicate in his mind that he doesn’t want to confront it. He feels stuck, even though he’s pretty sure this realisation is supposed to feel freeing.
Femininity has always been easy for Tom. It’s something he can slip in and out of, or between somehow. The gap between man and woman is easy for him to bridge. He’s not a woman. He knows that — has known that. But he doesn’t feel opposed to it as strongly as some other guys. And, while he’s not a woman, being a woman sure is comfortable.
He feels the same about manhood, but… at the same time, different. He doesn’t hate being a man, not really. But he doesn’t identify with it. He doesn’t think of himself as a man. Not in the same way as everyone else seems to.
But, but this— this realisation, it’s just for him, right? It’s just… musing, or— or a fun fact. A fun thing he’s learned about himself, that he doesn’t need to pursue.
So why does it feel so wrong when he steps off that stage, steps out of that feminine skin, and has to return to himself for a while?
“You ‘kay?” Luke asks, slipping down next to him on the sofa. Tom curls his legs up, a wave of discomfort washing over him at their gangly length. He rests his head on Luke’s shoulders.
“Oh,” says Luke, realising Tom’s mood. He wraps an arm around Tom’s shoulder, pressing a small kiss into his hair. Without noticing it, a sob escapes Tom’s lips.
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong, Tommy?” Luke asks, turning to Tom fully, a little shocked.
Tom finds his words have abandoned him, so he pushes his head into Luke’s shoulder and hums, pained.
“Bad night?” Luke says, but it sounds more like a statement than a question.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Tom whines.
“Babe,” Luke says, “I don’t mean to be rude, but, uh. Depression. Have you taken your meds today?”
Despite himself, Tom huffs out a laugh. He shakes his head.
“No. Well, I have, but— it’s not that.”
“What is it?” Luke murmurs.
Tom bites his lip. He watches the other side of the room, where Sam and AJ are standing either side of the boiling kettle. He knows their relationship is murky, and while he knows all of the others also like girls, he doesn’t know if they’ll still like him if they find out he’s been questioning. Or, not questioning. Because he knows. He supposes his journey has been more about accepting.
“Tom?”
He turns away a little, burying his face in his arms. Luke’s hand burns where it rests against his upper arm.
“You’ll hate me.”
“I won’t.”
“You will!”
AJ and Sam turn to look, their conversation falling abruptly silent.
“You’ll hate me,” Tom repeats, and it sounds like he’s pleading.
“Hey,” Sam says, his protective instincts picking up as he realises Tom is upset. He steps closer to the couch, sitting down on the little coffee table opposite. AJ hovers behind him, awkwardly. His gentle presence is a comfort, but Tom’s anxiety picks up anyway. He hates when things are a big deal. He tries not ever to make a big deal out of anything.
But this kind of is a big deal, isn’t it?
“Look, guys, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. My performance tonight… it was different. It was… something. I don’t know how to describe it.”
“It was good,” Luke reassures him, “Tom, you’re the funniest, cleverest, best guy I know, no offence to the others.”
Sam and AJ are nodding along, and Tom’s face is still slightly sticky from the mic tape, and Luke’s hands are clasped around his own sweaty fingers. Every limb feels frozen, burning, all at once, rigor mortis spreading through his body and seizing up his lungs. He’s incapable, unable to speak.
The heat is unbearable. AJ and Sam and Luke’s eyes are burning into him, their attentive faces so real, and there, and irreplaceable. He doesn’t know what to do if this goes wrong. They’re his best friends, his partners, his soulmates, his boys, his family. They’re his everything. He would live a million years as someone he was never meant to be just so he could stay with them.
But something tells him to do it, to take that leap. And he’s never been impulsive. But this, this is something he knows he has to do. Primally, he knows he has to do this, for himself.
“What if I wasn’t a guy at all?”
The air hangs between them, thick and heavy. The silence is suffocating, pervasive, invading. Tom stands up abruptly, Luke’s hands falling from his lap. He turns away, tense, running a hand through his hair.
“Fuck,” he says, surprising even himself, “I can’t do this.”
“Tom,” Sam says, broken out of his stupor. “Tom, Tom, Tom—” And then warm hands land on Tom’s shoulders, prising his hands away from grasping at his hair, enveloping him in warmth. The rough flannel of Sam’s arms is gentle, perfect, beautiful. Sam gently pushes him around, pulling him in. Tom’s ducks, burying his nose in Sam’s shoulder. For a moment, he lets himself feel small.
“I love you,” Sam says, and it’s exactly what Tom needs to hear right now.
“We all do,” AJ murmurs.
A sob escapes Tom’s lips. Luke stands up too, and the others join in their embrace. Someone’s hand clutches at the back of his head, another at his waist. So gentle, like they’re worried if they hold him too hard he’ll break.
Finally, after what feels like hours, they pull away. Tom, feeling a bit better, takes his seat back on the sofa. Luke sits back next to him, hands in his lap again. AJ takes a seat next to Sam on the table.
“And, um…” Luke fumbles for his words. “What does that mean for you?”
“I guess that I’m not a man,” Tom begins, voice faltering, “But I’m not a woman, either. I don’t know.”
“So you’re… non-binary? Tom, you know we understand—”
“No!”
Sam falls flat. Tom pulls his hands away from Luke’s again, clenching them into fists. His fingernails dig into his palm.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, “You don’t understand. None of you do. You can play a woman and feel— feel normal about it. You can feel okay with this. I’ve always been so comfortable, natural, in femininity. It was part of the reason why I started improv in the first place. But I feel so obvious now when I’m on stage.”
His partners look shocked at this revelation.
“It’s not easy anymore. Not now I’m thinking about it further. But I’m not nonbinary. I’m not a woman, or a man, but I’m not—”
“So you’re genderqueer? In some way?”
“No, just— can you stop putting words in my mouth!”
Sam falls silent. A wave of guilt washes over Tom for snapping, but he pushes it down.
“I’m so fucking tired of people trying to label me! Even myself, I– sometimes I feel like I need a label, just so people have something to slap on the wiki and tell anyone who asks. Just so it can be easy — I can hide behind a flag, and a word, and ignore all the ugly feelings! But it doesn’t work like that. The best I can say is that none of the labels fit me. I mean, I am a man. But also not. But also a woman. But also, I’m none of those things. All I know is, I want what I am on that stage, all the time. I want to be myself. Or— no, I want to be able to be anything I want. And—” he takes Luke’s hands back up in his own, “I know labels can be useful. I know they’ve been useful for you guys. But they’re not for me. I’m happy with queer. I’m even happy with trans. But— beyond that…” he sighs, “I don’t need to define myself. And I don’t need anyone else to define me.”
“Okay,” Sam croaks, “We understand.”
“I just need you to know that I’m not a man. That I’m just… me. I need you to just let me be Tom.”
“We can do that,” AJ says, offering him a gentle smile.
Luke runs a thumb over his hand. “Do you need us to call you different pronouns? Do you want us to?”
Tom bites his lip, shaking his head. “Not for now. I need to think.”
A chorus of nods.
“I’m sorry,” Tom says finally, “I know I’m not like a normal trans person.”
“Tom,” Luke smirks, “When have we ever said that we wanted you to be normal? We just want you to be happy, and to be yourself, as much as you can.”
“I’m scared,” Tom whispers.
“You don’t have to be,” Luke replies, and it’s so assured, so honest, and bright, that Tom can’t help himself but believe it.