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Emizel flopped heavily onto the cheap motel mattress, bouncing slightly as he dropped the little paper bag he held. Not for the first time thankful that Arthur and Grefgore had taken Shilo out for the night, something about teaching him to source his own blood. His bones ached, seeing Theo in the hospital had been hard. It always was. His best friend hadn't been recovering as well as the doctors wanted. He'd only survived from sheer dumb luck, but his arm hadn't. He'd looked small and broken in that hospital bed, but he'd still managed to help Emizel. And Emizel would help him in return. Somehow.
The boy took a few moments to rest on that bed before he sat again and pulled off his boots. Selfishly he had a more pressing issue than his friend.
Would his transition continue now he was dead?
He didn't know, and it's not like he had anyone he could ask. The only other Kindred he knew were either too damn old, too sheltered to know, or hated him. Mostly hated him.
With shaking hands he fished out his prescription from that little paper bag. Three boxes of testosterone gel. He'd tried the injections at first, back when he was seventeen and dumb, thinking he could handle the needles. He had enough scars to prove that pain didn't scare him. But he hadn't managed it, the idea freaking him out in a way he couldn't quite explain. Theo had helped at first, but the slightly faster speeds were not worth the fear. And so he'd switched to gel. It smelt like hell, all hospital alcohol and stinging, felt disgustingly cold between his fingers. But he'd managed it, and that was enough. He missed days, busy or injured or just forgetful, but that was normal. So here he sat, staring at the three blue and white boxes with their little green labels.
He didn't know where he'd hide them, he'd never actually told Arthur, or Shilo, or Grefgore. Never saw the point. They didn't need to know the little girl he had once been, skinned knees and oil staining her fists. He'd never been her, not truly. He'd always been there, just took a while for the rest of the world to see him too. Maybe he had always been Emizel just as he had always had fangs trying to emerge through his gums. Maybe this was who he was always meant to be. This creature of rage, with a row of sharp, shark teeth and red eyes, hungry and desperate. Just another form of transition.
He shook his head as he stood from the bed, tucking two of the boxes deep into his ratty old backpack he had had since he was a child and keeping one tucked up by his armpit. If he was careful he'd get his dose tonight. It had been maybe two weeks since he had last had access to his testosterone, and he had already been struggling with the crash. His body felt weaker, slower, and not quite his own.
So he walked into the bathroom and locked the door. Or tried to. The damn thing had jammed tighter than should be possible. But he did eventually manage. He tore open the box and stared at the pump like he was seeing a ghost.
Maybe in another life he had been born right, with the correct body. But this wasn't that life. So instead he pushed off the cap with a little pop and primed the pump over the sink.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He rinsed the gel out of the sink and took a few deep breaths before pulling off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in just his binder. The thing was old, black and stained with things he simply didn't want to know or remember. Other than the bleach, that did look good, patchy red and orange spread out like miniature suns. Almost ironic considering everything about his new un-life. Emizel didn't know why this made him so anxious, why having to do this every damn day filled him with dread. The changes he adored, but the action he despised. Maybe it was just another little proof he could never truly be himself, another sign he was different. He'd always been there, hidden in a feminine body, possibly just like he had always been a monster hidden in a human body. He shook his head and took a deep breath he didn't need.
One perk was that the gel didn't feel near painfully cold anymore. But that came at the cost of his nose practically burning from the scent of the gel, hand sanitiser and hydrogen peroxide and all the little things Emizel hated. The scent assaulted his nostrils so he stopped breathing and just spread the gel around his upper arm. Repeat. The scent still managed to worm itself into his overloaded senses, all elmers glue and alcohol burn. If he were a religious man he'd say it was a punishment. Luckily for himself, he was not.
He fanned at his arms, trying to will the gel to sink into his undead skin faster. It took longer now, his body trying to refuse what he wanted it to absorb. He assumed it was to do with the being dead thing. And he cursed it. He cursed himself for going to that alley, to that fight, he cursed Gabriel for biting him, he cursed himself for biting back. And he cursed Theo for it not being him. Maybe it was always going to happen. Fate or some bullshit like that. If it wasn't Gabriel then it might have been Shilo, or Arthur, or some unnamed bastard. He clenched his jaw, trying to distract himself from this train of thought, tried to listen to hear if Arthur, Grefgore and Shilo were returning yet. Fuck, it would suck if Arthur had sired him, no more shitty smash tournaments with his gang, not that he'd had any since he died, but at least he had the option.
Dry, finally. Emizel shoved his shirt back on, tearing the worn fabric in his haste. He stared at the small rip, the front torn, creating a small v shape. Fuck. He'd had this shirt practically forever. At least since he'd come out, all those years ago. Theo had bought it. Or well, gifted it. It had been his first, and now it was Emizel's favourite. He stared at the tear like it had personally wronged him. It had.
With a sigh Emizel shoved the cap back on the damned testosterone bottle and forced it back into his box. Like it was taunting him. Like it had been forcing him to see all of his differences. All the little ways he had never been anything he wanted to be. He had never been a girl, he had never been a man either. Not how he saw men. Men didn't wear the skin of dead little girls like it was theirs, the only skin they had ever, and would ever have. It felt like a mockery, to see his face and know it had once belonged to a little girl begging to be seen. Oil and mud stained her clothes, the hair she wore long because it meant she could hide. But now he wore her skin, older, harder, defiant. Proof, in some twisted little way, that he had always been there. Sometimes a man wore the skin of a little girl, because he grew into it.
He ran a hand over the little shitty sideburns he had grown, calming himself with the coarse texture and crinkly, rustling sound. She had died long ago. He had been born of her death. And then he had been born of his. Maybe he'd always been dead.
He shook his head and tucked the box under his arm, unlocking and yanking open the bathroom door, with a small amount of difficulty as it caught again on the damned uneven flooring. That's what you get for renting the fucking cheapest motel room you could find, he supposed. With quick steps he crossed the room and shoved the box into his bag, like it was a dirty little secret.
A cough sounded from the doorway and Emizel looked up, body stiff as panic worked its way into his bones. Arthur, Shilo and Grefgore stood there, Arthur with his arms folded over his chest. He crossed the room in quick steps, Void resting on his shoulders and Emizel got the distinct feeling that the cat was judging him for every decision he had ever made. And every decision he was yet to make. One of Arthur's eyebrows raised just over the frame of his glasses. “What are you doing, Emizel?” He asked, his voice neutral. Emizel got the distinct feeling that he was about to be scolded like a child caught sneaking out. And he hated it. He looked past Arthur to Shilo, watching his brother hanging up his coat, clutching that blood filled mountain dew bottle like it was a security blanket.
Emizel felt like his brain was short circuiting, any intelligent thoughts and responses just out of his reach. He wanted to say nothing, or to confess to what he had been doing. “It's not drugs!” He blurted instead. Arthur just stared. “It's not illegal drugs! I'm not finding a way to get high!”
“I didn't say you were, Emizel.” Arthur said slowly, sitting on the bed, still watching the younger man. Shilo walked over and looked into the bag. Emizel stiffened.
“Hey, leave it.” He snapped at his brother, red eyes narrowing. Lucky fucking bastard, not needing the sensory crime that was t-gel. Shilo quickly moved back, holding the box in his hand. If Emizel was alive he would feel his blood run cold. Instead he ran hot, anger simmering somewhere under his lungs, settled into its place, warming his corpse cold body. “What the fuck?” He grumbled. Too late to go back now. Fuck. He ran a hand down his face, trying so desperately not to snap.
Shilo ignored him, turning the box over in his hands, examining it curiously, his eyes squinted. He moved it closer to his eye, as if only just remembering that he only had the one. “What is this?” He asked softly, opening the box gently, examining the content. “Testogel.” He mumbled, tilting his head slightly, trying to figure out why Emizel would have it.
“It's medicine.” Emizel snapped, snatching the box back roughly. His hands shook as he forced it back into his bag and zipped it shut, forcing himself to not spill everything here. Fuck, he didn't realise how much the secret weighed on him. He didn't expect to have it exposed this way. A small, weak part of him wished he'd told them sooner, so he wouldn't be in this situation.
How fucked up it was to die multiple times for the brother you only just met yet not trust him enough to be honest.
He sat down heavily, running a hand down his face that had only recently returned back to his. Trying desperately not to snap, say something he'd regret. Thoughts spun around his head too fast for him to catch, his limbs too heavy and his mind too light. They'd hate him. Arthur was too old to understand and Shilo too sheltered. Grefgore might, but he doubted it. They'd hate him. They'd hate him. At best these people he refused to consider family but were anyway would kick him out for being disgusting, being a freak, at worst he'd be forced back into the skin of that long dead little girl. Panic fluttered between his ribs where anger normally simmered. Terror so deep he couldn't think. He hated this. He was doomed. Damned. Dead again. They'd never look at him the same. He could hear them talking, but not what they were saying.
Arthur moved closer, an arm wrapping around Emizel's shoulders, pulling him close, holding him together. Shilo sat beside him, a hand resting gently on Emizel's knee. Arthur whispered softly, not saying anything in particular, but the pressure was soothing and Emizel felt his limbs growing lighter, his mind settling. He squirmed from the touch and shook his head, then his hands, working out the panic. He didn't know how long it had been, only that everything hurt now. “Emizel, you don't need to tell us anything you don't want to. But you also don't need to sneak around.” Arthur's voice was gentle and Emizel found himself giving in.
Fuck it. Emizel ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. Fuck it all. “It's testosterone.” He said simply, shrugging. “I'm trans.” He looked at his brother and Arthur, waiting for the anger and disgust.
There was none. Instead Shilo just laughed softly. “Wait, so is that gel thing,” He gestured at Emizel's bag before looking back at him, tilting his head slightly. “How mortals transition?” There was nothing but genuine curiosity in Shilo's eye, his head tilted in that way it so often was since he traded his other. His brain's way of trying to function with its monocular vision. “That is so cool.”
Emizel hadn't expected that response and he froze, staring at Shilo with his mouth slightly open. “What?” He managed after a long while, his eyes not leaving Shilo. His brother seemed to brighten as he stared.
“When I came out Mother had some of the sorcerers change me.” Shilo said with a shrug, as if this revelation didn't completely shatter Emizel's world. As if he was just talking about the weather, and not another way they were so similar. “I thought you knew, after the Cullen Games.”
Emizel didn't respond to that, but did silently scold himself for being unobservant.
“So you're both,” Arthur interrupted, trailing off after a moment when three eyes settled on him and Void shifted on his shoulders. “Transvestites?” He finished after a moment too long, looking genuinely uncomfortable. Not at them, not at the Princes, but at his own lack of understanding. Void took that moment to gently hit Arthur with her paw. As if even the cat was offended at her owner's ignorance.
A laugh burst from Emizel's chest and he doubled over, his shoulders shaking with mirth. After a moment he straightened up. “Holy shit. You are so fucking old.” He teased, staring dead at Arthur as he kept laughing. Finding too much joy in the older man's lack of understanding. “Different things, boomer.”
Shilo turned to Arthur and sighed, like he'd had this same conversation countless times. He probably had, considering how old powerful kindred tended to be. “No, transgender, transvestite is different.” He explained slowly, but he glanced at Emizel, silently asking the other for help. Emizel didn't. He just kept laughing to himself. Shilo sighed and made a mental note to throw something at his brother later. As revenge. “A transvestite just enjoys dressing as the opposite gender, a transgender person is someone who was born one gender and identifies as the other.” He blinked at Arthur, hoping the man understood now.
Arthur just nodded slowly. “So, basically you two were born female and changed? Okay.” He looked uncomfortable, as if his ignorance was a physical discomfort.
“Yeah, yeah. We did all the feels-y shit.” Emizel snapped after a moment, apparently at his limit of processing emotions for the night. “Seriously, Arthur, your best friend is gay and you didn't know this.” He rolled his eyes as he flopped onto the cheap mattress of the single bed in the room, starfishing his limbs out, claiming this one for himself.
Arthur sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don't normally try to keep up to date with modern gender stuff.” He grumbled, as if he didn't want to say this, but knew if he didn't it'd be found anyway. “Or really much modern. People don't write books like they used to.”
“Boomer!” Emizel called, throwing a pillow at Arthur. “Use Google like the rest of us.”
Arthur spluttered for a moment and threw the pillow back, resting his head in his hands. Void nudged him with her face and he grumbled something too quiet for anyone else to hear. After a few long moments he shifted to sit cross-legged on the bed, watching as Shilo perched himself on the edge of the scuffed old desk and drank from his Mountain Dew bottle, his legs swinging. Then he watched as Emizel seemed to be trying to completely bury himself in the blanket and pillows of his newly claimed bed, only a bit of his pale skin exposed. Grefgore had, apparently, decided to pretend to be a statue by the door. “Forgive my ignorance, but is this like what happened with James Barry?” He asked, glancing between the twins like he was afraid of offending them. He was. He truly did try and stay up-to-date, but that often failed.
“Fuckin’ who?” Emizel asked from the nest of blankets he had wrapped himself in. Shilo just looked blankly at him. Clearly neither had had the education, or cared, to know of an obscure historical figure.
“Ah,” Arthur started, absentmindedly picking at a thread on the comforter, silently regretting ever opening his mouth. “James Barry was a surgeon born in 1789. He lived his life as a man, had instructions for when he died to just bury him in his bedsheets and whatever he wore. Those were ignored and it was found he was a woman. Historians have been arguing for centuries now if he was a woman trying to become a surgeon or simply transgender and a surgeon.” He shrugged, watching the twins to see how they reacted to this. Shilo's eye lit up and he nodded. Emizel, however, seemed confused and a little angry at this. Nothing abnormal for him, but still.
“I'm not fuckin’ pretending to be a man to live an easier life.” Emizel snapped from within his cocoon of blankets, the form shifting as he squirmed to get a little more comfortable. Arthur sighed deeply again. Anything more and he'd somehow exhale a lung. Emizel laughed silently at his own thought.
“I never said my own thoughts on the matter.” Arthur said, his voice neutral. Bloody Brujah and their tempers. He shook his head slowly, silently praying that Emizel understood what he was trying to say in a clumsy sort of way. Hoping that Emizel understood that Arthur really didn't have it in himself to care too deeply. He said he was a man, he was a man. That's as far as Arthur had it in himself to care, not because he didn't care for the princes, but because he never understood why some people were so damn intense about denying identity.
After a moment Emizel made a small sound, something that sounded a little like agreement, or giving up. “I suppose so, then.” He grumbled quietly, smothering his own face with a pillow. He stayed like that for a few long, quiet moments before he rolled again and uncovered his face. “You think I could have asked the Weylins for top surgery?” He asked, almost to himself before laughing. “Nah, they'd have done some freak shit with my tits.”
Shilo laughed quietly from where he sat, covering his mouth with his hand as he spat the blood he had been drinking, a distinctly undignified action. So casual it reminded Emizel with a sharp pang that there could have been a world where they were raised together. “They absolutely would have!” He laughed, kicking his legs as he struggled to clean blood off his hands with the terrible tissues provided by the motel.
Arthur sighed again, shaking his head, but a small smile played at the corner of his lips.