Chapter Text
Bill didn’t think about it that much, all things considered.
It only passed through his mind on special occasions—like when he was dodging the locker room showers, to the visible distress of his sweat-stained peers. Or when he caught a glimpse of a zit-faced stranger with a too-soft body staring back at him in the mirror, and realized with horror that yes, that was him. Or when the club was on one of their chases and he felt the gauze strapped around his ribs dig into his sides like some medieval punishment. Or when his parents were screaming at each other at the latest custody hand-off like it was a sport, and Bill was the prize they didn’t actually want. Or worse—right before he fell asleep, when his brain ran out of trek-themed fantasy sequences and he was forced to do what he feared most— think.
So yeah. Bill didn’t think about the tiny cursed “F” still haunting his birth certificate all that much. Because really—who gave a shit?
His parents had long stopped pretending to care. They’d retired from policing what Bill did, what he wore, or what he asked to be called somewhere between Divorce Meltdown #3 and Mutual Custody Standoff #19. Mom thought it was a rebellion against her womanhood, or whatever. Dad thought it was Mom’s fault for being too drunk and embarrassing to inspire any desire for femininity in her kids. They were both wrong, and simultaneously irrelevant.
So Bill didn’t care. His parents didn’t care. And no one else knew. Which made it the perfect setup. Because the people who would care? The people who would absolutely ruin his life if they ever found out?
They couldn’t know. Not ever.
He’d seen the way the other boys had treated their freakish fan-female counterparts, and understood that one wrong move and he’d receive the same. And while some of those bimbos certainly deserved the vitriol they received for disrespecting the title of fandom, some of them didn’t. It couldn’t help but expand the ever growing black hole of Bill’s insecurity to know how close he was to being them. He had clawed and kicked and backhanded his way into being Bill Dickey, founder of the eltingville club, high priest of the fandom. One misstep, and all of that would be gone. He’d be just another ‘fake geek girl’. A bad joke.
And Bill did not do jokes. Especially not when he was the punchline.
He was on his fifth layer of post-gym deodorant—basically marinating in Axe body spray —when Jerry shuffled up beside him. Bill’s eyes rolled so hard it nearly counted as a stroke. He wasn’t trying to be a dick today. In fairness, he never really tried. It just came out of him like carbon dioxide. Natural, effortless, often toxic. His intrinsic obnoxiousness was compounded today though, he’d nearly bitten Josh’s head off in chemistry for fucking up one part of their assignment, which was definitely unusual levels of shitty.
“What do you want Jerry, can’t see that I’m busy?”
“Hey Buck,” Jerry’s eyes squinted shut in the fluorescent lighting, but his mouth remained a nervous smile. “Uh—I was just wondering if the meeting tonight was still on or what. None of the other guys said anything.”
“What—? Oh. No, we cancelled. Josh has some temple shit and Pete is probably gonna be jerking off all weekend. We just forgot to tell you. ” Bill clicked the can of deodorant closed and began packing up his bag to get the hell out of school, desperate to be home.
“Oh man, that blows.”
“Yeah, well, life’s a bitch and then you don’t get to watch Akira on someone else’s dad’s couch,” Bill muttered, beelining toward the bus like it was a lifeboat and Jerry was dragging him back onto the Titanic. Out of all his lackeys that could’ve followed him out, Jerry was definitely the least irritating option. He never disagreed with Bill, and never corrected him, which always won him brownie points. Still, Bill didn’t have the patience for even one stupid comment or poorly timed ‘BidiBidiBidi’.
Jerry shuffled up behind him quickly, shoulders almost brushing with Bill’s. “Well, uh… could I maybe hang out with you anyway? My parents are out of town, and the house is way too creepy since Pete made us watch Hotel Hell.”
Bill grimaced. Hotel Hell had been the stuff of nightmares—Pete’s latest attempt at “cultural enrichment,” which was Pete for “subjecting everyone to obscure slasher films until someone cried.”
“Jesus Christ. Fine. But I’m marathoning Batman, so we’re doing it my way or not at all. Capiche?”
“Sure, Bill,” Jerry said, matching his pace.
Jane had claimed the basement for her giggling coven of middle school witches, which meant Bill and Jerry were exiled to the upper floors. It was weird—Jerry had been in Bill’s room plenty of times, but always with backup. Usually the guys barreled in to drag him out of bed when he overslept or to rummage through his stuff. Now it was just the two of them, alone.
Bill wasn’t a great conversationalist when he wasn’t dominating the narrative or owning people with his outstanding knowledge of preferred media, and to his distress, he’d never realized that Jerry was actually pretty quiet. He supposed it made sense, the blonde had always found a few catch phrases or small comments to latch onto throughout meetings, but he wasn’t the one starting any actual biting conversations. At most he expressed his opinion and backed down when challenged. Still, even with the understanding that this was likely his natural state, it was weird having Jerry silently sit on his bed analyzing his bedroom.
“Uh… we can order a pizza if you’re hungry or whatever,” Bill offered, hands in his pockets to try disguising the fact that he really didn’t know what to do without a group to play off of.
Jerry swung his legs off the side of the bed, childlike. It was almost cute.
“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m starving.”
Bill turned to call the pizza place down the block. He wasn’t hungry; in fact his stomach was in knots, but calling in food was better than standing around and pretending not to stare at Jerry. The phone call gave him a small excuse to breathe.
Large pie, two sodas, vague grunt in Jerry’s direction for confirmation. Done. Now he had a fallback plan if things got too quiet: stress eat until the point of unconsciousness. Also known as Josh’s idea of a good Friday night.
“I thought you were gonna watch Batman movies all night, Buck.” Jerry broke Bill’s trance-like state, grinning at him widely .
“Yeah dumbass obviously that’s still what I’m doing! My bad for being a gracious host and offering you sustenance,” Bill grumbled, already setting up his garbage VCR like a sacred ritual.
He had rented the whole trilogy with the intention of doing a full cinematic autopsy—plot holes, continuity errors, missed comic references. But now, with his head pounding and his stomach staging a coup, that dream was dying fast.
It was going decently throughout the first half of ‘Batman Begins’, as Jerry tolerated his near constant commentary like a saint. Bill wasn’t one to appreciate other people’s takes on his favorite things, unless they came from online forums where he could brazenly take the ideas as his own. Still, Jerry’s more sparing commentary was actually halfway decent.
He agreed that this was the best portrayal of Gotham, and that Christian Bale was the best Bruce Wayne of all time, and that Anne Hathaway was the hottest Catwoman of all time, but that didn’t mean her portrayal of the character was any good because her delivery was so strange. Each time Bill agreed with a grunt and a nod Jerry beamed, like affirmation was a scarce sight to him. It was shocking—had the entire club been steamrolling his actual decent opinions this whole time, or just Bill?
By the time they had gotten to ‘The dark Knight’, Bill was ready to crawl out of his skin with the way his head was throbbing. Jerry however seemed like he could’ve sat frozen on his plaid sheets for the rest of his high school career, not moving much other than to shove another slice down his throat. Each time Bill shifted uncomfortably, he could feel the other boy eye him warily.
One aggressively hot shower later, he was ready to throw in the towel.
“I’m going to bed. You can keep watching or whatever,” he mumbled, already half-buried under his blankets and facing the wall.
Jerry looked over like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
That was fine, Bill didn’t need candid reassurance to sleep in his own damn house. He shuffled into his side of the bed and willed himself into unconsciousness.
Bill woke up mid-panic, with someone shaking his shoulder like they were trying to rattle a soda out of the Bill-vending-machine.
“Bill! Oh my god, Bill! Wake up dude!”
He jerked upright, heart slamming into his ribs. “What?! What’s wrong?”
Jerry looked like he’d seen a ghost. His wispy blonde hair was sticking up like he’d done some kissing practice on an outlet, face pale in the flickering TV light.
“Dude… you’re bleeding.”
“What?!” Bill looked down—and yeah. There it was. A dark, sticky puddle of red horror soaking through his boxers like it was taken straight from a Stephen king novel. Fantastic. This was probably the worst thing that had happened in his short embarrassing life, and would no doubt be included in the spectacular biography that would be written upon his passing.
He didn’t have much time to think before Jerry pointed down like he was striking the eleventh commandment. “You need a hospital, man! My dad had a hemorrhoid pop once, and he almost died.”
Jerry still had a tight grip on his shoulders, shaking him slightly and compounding Bill’s anxiety induced nausea. Somehow his friend was managing to make an already awful and embarrassing situation three times as bad. The implication that he was bleeding from his ass was enough to make his blood boil over.
“Jerry you retard this is not a busted hemorrhoid!! It’s my period!”
Bill wanted to crawl into a soft grave and wait for death, this was possibly the worst thing that could happen to him. Jerry stared at him owlishly, lips quirked up like he was going to laugh before his face fell back into a level of embarrassment and bewilderment.
“Dude, that’s not funny. You could seriously be hurt. We need to get your mom and go to the emergency room or something, that’s not normal.”
“No you fucking dipshit! It is normal for me, I’m serious!” Bill nearly shouted, hands coming up to pull his hair hard from his scalp. He was suddenly acutely aware of the wetness on his ass, the pain in his lower abdomen, and felt the excruciating urge to run into his bathroom and scream until Jerry went home.
Jerry stared. No blinking, no flinching. Just staring, mouth hanging open like a slack-jawed Wiley Coyote who’d just walked right off a cliff and hadn’t realized it yet.
Bill didn’t know what to do. His skin was hot, mouth dry, and it felt like every molecule in the room had turned inward to mock him. He could feel his pulse behind his ears. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think past the fact that he was sitting in his own blood. In front of Jerry. Who knew. Who knew.
Jerry finally blinked. “Wait,” he said, slowly. “Like… you’re a girl?”
“No!” Bill’s voice cracked like glass. “No, you—fuck, Jerry! That’s not—It’s not that simple, okay?”
He was on his feet now, grabbing at the sheets with trembling hands, the sticky red mess soaking through thin fabric as a physical manifestation of his shame. His whole body buzzed with adrenaline and panic, and somewhere in the haze of it all, he realized he was crying. Not just the hot-eyed welling up kind, but full-on, silent tears streaking down his cheeks that he refused to acknowledge.
Jerry was practically catapulted off the bed by Bill’s efforts, and when he stood he stayed back, like Bill was a wounded animal that might bite. “Okay,” he said carefully. “Okay. I just—what’s happening? I thought you were—like, you are a guy, right?”
“I am,” Bill snapped, then faltered. “I mean, yeah. I am. Just not… whatever. Just go, Jerry. Please. You weren’t supposed to see this.”
But Jerry didn’t move. He scratched at the back of his head, still looking bewildered but not, to Bill’s surprise, disgusted. Not yet. At least not like the others would’ve been.
“You really should’ve told me, man. I wouldn’t have freaked out if I knew. Probably.”
Bill laughed bitterly, rubbing his sleeve across his nose. “Sure. Right. That’s why you thought I had a hemorrhaging asshole, because you’re so enlightened.”
Jerry flushed. “Okay, so I freaked out! Sorry for not immediately guessing the ‘obvious’ secret you’ve been hiding from everyone for like the entirety of our friendship!”
Bill opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught. There wasn’t much he could say in the face of almost five years of compounded lies. Again his stomach lurched, only now he couldn’t decide if it was the shedding of blood or nerves.
It was obvious now. All of it. He’d never been regular, he assumed his shit diet and night owl tendencies threw him off from ‘monthly’ to whenever his body could get around to natural processes. But there were still signs. His binding had felt too tight lately. His usual acne had gotten particularly aggressive. His appetite had been gone all week. It was all so stupidly obvious, and yet somehow, it still hit like a surprise party thrown by God just to ruin his perfectly curated life.
“I can’t do this,” Bill muttered. “I can’t—I’m not having this conversation with you. Not like this, and not right now.”
“I’m not trying to make it a thing,” Jerry said, still standing there, still not getting the fuck out. “I just… I want to understand. If you want me to. I mean, if I’m already in it.”
“In it?” Bill snapped. “This isn’t a fucking club hazing, Jerry. You don’t join.”
They both stood there in silence for a beat too long. Jerry, awkward and gangly in his mismatched pajamas, and Bill, in blood-soaked boxers holding a fury he didn’t know how to aim.
“I’m gonna go clean up,” Bill muttered, his voice hoarse. “You can sleep on the couch. Or just leave. I don’t care.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before storming into the bathroom, slamming the door shut with a bang that shook picture frames down the hall.
Jerry didn’t leave. Not right away. Not even when the bathroom fan turned on, masking the running water and whatever quiet sobs were swallowed up in the steam. He sat back on the bed, staring at his feet, thinking.
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