Work Text:
Painter looked at herself in the mirror.
White hair down to her shoulders, a soft round face, and all the sugar and spice to make her a perfect little girl. Well not really. She wasn’t that perfect. Mental illness after mental illness diagnosis, pills and whatnot. A drooping lazy eye as well.
and even worse.
It didn’t feel like her own body. Her chest felt like it burned from where she’d torn off the duct tape in a failed attempt at about 2 minutes of binding in the bathroom. She wanted to cut her hair so desperately but never couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her voice that was close but not manly enough.
Not nearly.
He could never be the man he knew she was. He was too mentally ill. What if this was a phase? Or she was faking? She’d embarrass herself and Sebastian, who actually was a transman who could actually do it. No. He was a man. Just that. Who happened to be born as a girl. Not like what Painter was.
She looked at herself again in the mirror. Tears that had threatened to fall for years, to finally mourn the life, the boy she’d never become. But they didn’t fall, because some part of him refused to let go. Some part made him still believe in this stupid charade.
He fell to his knees, just breathing, staring at the floor. How could he possibly live like this? He felt like it had gone on for so long and yet he was still a teenager, not even a late one at that. He hoped something would happen, some way he’d die around his twenties so he wouldn’t have to go on like this, broken and a fag.
He sniffled and wiped his nose, despite nothing running. He stood up off the ground and left his room to go get a drink of water. He couldn’t stay like that, on the sickly static cold border of tears and blankness. He walked past Sebastian who was napping soundly on the couch shirtless, showing off scars underneath his pecs that Painter could only dream about bearing.