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White stood in front of the mirror, fingers curled tight in the unfamiliar fabric of the doublet.
He shouldn’t have taken it. Blue had been halfway through tailoring it—chalk lines still ghosted along the seams, pins tucked carefully into the cuff. It wasn’t meant for him.
He was only going to try it on. Just for a second. Then he’d fold it neatly and put it back exactly where he found it.
That’s all.
The doublet hung a little loose at the waist, the shoulders just slightly too wide—but that almost made it better. It squared him out. Sharpened him. The structured lines flattened what he usually had to smooth over with layers and careful posture. The stiff collar framed his neck instead of dipping or curving. No soft lace. No fitted seams hugging his hips. No fluttering sleeves.
He turned slowly, studying himself from one angle, then another.
His breath caught.
For a moment—just a moment—he didn’t have to tilt his chin a certain way or stand in a way to make himself seem taller. The doublet did the work for him. It hid the curve of his waist. It suggested strength instead of softness.
His chest was still there. Subtle, but there. He frowned faintly at the outline beneath the fabric, pressing a palm there as if he could will it flatter.
Not enough.
Still—better.
He reached up and gathered his hair, pulling it back at the nape of his neck. He tucked stray strands away from his face, exposing his jawline, letting himself really look.
The mirror didn’t show the version of him everyone else insisted on seeing.
It showed something closer.
Something that felt like relief.
His throat tightened, not with sadness—but with something warmer. Quieter. Hope, maybe.
He hummed under his breath, low and thoughtful, rolling his shoulders back. Standing taller. Letting the shape of the garment guide the way he held himself.
He looked… right.
Not perfect. Not finished. But closer to the man he knew himself to be.
The knock at the door shattered the stillness.
White jolted like he’d been caught stealing, arms flying around his torso as if he could hide the evidence. Heat rushed to his face. His heart hammered.
He glanced wildly at the mirror again—at the broader shoulders, the almost-flat chest, the hair pulled back—and for a split second, panic flared.
Would they see him?
Or would they laugh?
Another knock. Firmer this time.
White swallowed, fingers tightening in the fabric.
For just a second longer, he held his reflection’s gaze—memorizing it. The way the doublet made him look less like the role he’d been handed and more like the person he’d been fighting to become.
“Y-yeah?”
The word came out smaller than he meant it to. His voice cracked at the edges, thin and uncertain, and he winced at himself. Too soft. Always too soft.
“Hey, White, have you seen that doublet I was working on?” Blue called from the other side of the door.
White’s stomach dropped.
“Uhh…” His gaze snapped to the mirror again—to the evidence still on his body. The structured shoulders. The clean lines. The version of himself he hadn’t been ready to let go of yet.
Should he tell him?
Should he admit he’d taken it just to try it on? Just to see what it felt like to look like the rest of them?
No.
No, they’d laugh. Not cruelly, maybe—but enough. Like he was a little girl sneaking into her brothers’ wardrobe. Playing pretend. Dressing up.
He swallowed hard. “No, Blue. I haven’t.” He forced steadiness into his voice, willing it not to tremble.
A pause.
“That’s so weird…” Blue muttered, confusion threading his tone. Then, more casually, “Hey, Pink wants to know if you wanna try the dress he’s working on for you.”
White’s fingers curled into the fabric at his sides.
The fall harvest.
Lanterns strung from the trees. Music drifting through the square. Laughter. Dancing.
Pink had been so excited about that dress—silk dyed the softest rose, he’d said. Flowing sleeves. A fitted waist.
White felt his chest tighten.
He didn’t want flowing sleeves. He didn’t want fitted waists. He didn’t want silk brushing his hips and reminding him of every curve he fought to ignore.
He wanted this.
The sharp lines of the doublet. The weight of it on his shoulders. The quiet authority of it.
It was bad enough that three different men had shown up that week with flowers. One had even offered his prized cow to White’s brothers in exchange for escorting him to the harvest feast.
A cow.
White’s stomach twisted at the memory. He could still hear the awkward laughter. The speculative looks.
Thank the Angel above Yellow had answered the door and told the man to kick rocks and take his cow elsewhere. White wasn’t entirely convinced Pink wouldn’t have entertained the offer, if only out of politeness.
He hated it.
Hated the attention.
Hated that it was drawn to a version of him that wasn’t real.
Hated that it was because of a body he hadn’t chosen and a name that felt like a costume he’d been forced to wear since birth.
The silence stretched too long.
“White…?” Blue’s voice softened. “You okay in there?”
“Y-yeah, Blue. I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter.
Another pause.
“I’ll just… tell Pink you’re busy,” Blue said carefully.
Relief rushed through White so fast his knees nearly gave out. “Thank you.”
Footsteps echoed down the hall, growing fainter until they disappeared entirely.
Only then did White move.
He shrugged out of the doublet with shaking hands, folding it carefully—so carefully—and setting it aside. Then he sank onto his bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his palms.
He couldn’t keep doing this.
Couldn’t keep smiling through dress fittings and dodging suitors and pretending the name Rhoswen didn’t make his skin crawl.
His throat tightened.
Rhoswen.
The girl they thought they had. The girl everyone saw.
He wasn’t her.
He’d never been her.
He scrubbed at his face and stood abruptly, crossing to his desk. The chair scraped loudly against the floor as he pulled it out and sat. His hands trembled as he reached for parchment and quill.
Ink pooled at the tip as he hesitated.
How do you tell the people who grew up with you that they’ve been seeing you wrong?
How do you explain that the discomfort isn’t new—that it’s been there all along, quiet and gnawing and relentless? That every dress feels like a performance. That every “she” lands like a pebble in his shoe, small but impossible to ignore.
He pressed the quill to parchment.
Wrote something.
He stopped. Crossed it out.
Started again.
No. Too abrupt.
He exhaled shakily and tried again, writing slower this time. About the doublet. About the harvest. About how he didn’t want to be presented like that. About how he didn’t want to be Rhoswen anymore.
The words came haltingly at first. Then faster.
He wrote about how he felt like himself in structured clothes. How being called White felt easier, lighter. How he didn’t want to keep pretending for the sake of comfort—especially not when that comfort wasn’t his.
Would they listen?
Blue, weighed down by too many worries.
Orange, lost in his thoughtful silences.
Yellow, sharp and unapologetically blunt.
Pink, fiercely protective to the core.
Would they understand?
He didn’t know.
But as he stared down at the ink staining the parchment—at the truth laid bare in his own handwriting—he felt something shift.
Fear, yes.
But also relief.
He couldn’t keep hiding in borrowed moments in front of mirrors.
He had to tell them.
And this time, he wasn’t going to fold himself away.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
White stepped carefully down the narrow path, a bouquet of roses clutched tightly against his chest.
His heart raced, leaving a hollow pit in his stomach. The world felt brittle and cold, trees burning in shades of orange and yellow beneath a dim autumn sky. Wind swept through the graveyard, sharp and unkind, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself as if it might hold him together.
The long, simple dress he wore billowed around his legs with each step. He hadn’t really wanted to wear it—but he didn’t have many pairs of pants yet. Maybe, after he followed through with his plan, his brothers would make him more.
Maybe that was wishful thinking.
His curls fell past his shoulders, black and thick, a single streak of white bright against the darkness. The roses in his arms—red and white intertwined—smelled sweet and familiar. They reminded him of her. Of warm hands and gentler days. The scent eased his anxiety, if only a little, as he walked past rows of silent gravestones.
Eventually, he found the one he was looking for.
His throat tightened. His chest felt too small to hold his lungs.
He inhaled slowly, held it, then let it go.
“Hey, Mama,” he murmured, staring down at the stone.
“I know it’s been a long time since I came to see you. I’m… I’m really sorry about that. It’s just…” His voice wavered. “It’s hard, Mama. I hope you understand.”
He swallowed. His hands trembled, knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping the bouquet.
“I brought you your favorite flowers,” he added softly. His voice broke at the end, splintering as he knelt and set the roses carefully at the base of the headstone.
His fingers curled into the skirt of his dress, clutching fabric as if it might anchor him.
“I know you named Pink and I after them.” A shaky breath escaped him. “Roseo and Rhoswen…” He gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Which is… probably why I feel so guilty right now.”
Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them.
“Mama, I—” His words shattered, a sob tearing through him.
“Hell, you ain’t even here and I’m still scared to tell you.”
His arms wrapped around himself, holding tight, like he could keep the pieces from falling apart.
He cried. He hadn’t meant to cry. He definitely hadn’t wanted to.
A breeze stirred again, gentler this time, brushing his hair across his tear-streaked face. He lifted a trembling hand to sweep it away—
—and that’s when he noticed the bird.
It stood perched atop the gravestone, small and still. Its feathers were gray, touched with a faint sheen of purple that shimmered when the light caught them.
His breath caught.
Mama had purple in her hair.
Maybe it was coincidence.
The bird chirped softly, tilting its head as if studying him.
He sniffed, staring back.
A memory rose up, bright and warm against the chill of the present.
He’d been a little girl then. Mama had been tending the garden when a small flock of birds landed nearby. She had tossed them seeds with patient hands, and they’d gathered eagerly around her.
White had tried too—excited, too quick.
She’d scared them off.
“Easy, my love,” Mama had said gently, her smile warm, her eyes bright, the illness still far away in some distant future. “Take it slow. Be patient.”
So White had tried again. Slower. Softer.
The birds had stayed.
One had even eaten from her palm.
White blinked, returning to the present. The bird was still there.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and drew in a shaky breath before slowly sinking to his knees in the damp earth.
“I’m gonna go slow,” White whispered.
A soft laugh bubbled up through his tears as he glanced down at the dark patches spreading across his dress. “Father used to get so mad when I’d sit in the dirt.”
His eyes drifted to the headstone nearby—the one that marked a body that had never been returned from the war. They had made it anyway.
He turned back to his mother’s grave.
The bird hadn’t moved.
Still watching.
White let out a slow, shaky breath. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his skirt again before he forced them still. Slow, he reminded himself.
“Mama…” His voice wavered again, but he didn’t let it break this time. “I need to tell you something. And I know you’re not… I know you’re not here like you used to be. But I need to say it out loud.”
The wind shifted, softer now, stirring the edges of his cloak.
“I’m not… I’m not your little girl.”
The words hung in the air between him and the stone. Heavy. Real.
His heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears.
“I tried to be,” he whispered. “I really did. I tried to wear what everyone expects me to. Tried to smile when they called me Rhoswen. Tried to fit into it like it was something I could grow into.”
He swallowed.
“But it doesn't fit right.”
His hands pressed against his knees as if he could hold himself steady.
“I’m not her. I’m not Rhoswen.”
The name cracked coming out. Not in hatred—just in truth.
“I’m your son.”
There it was.
The confession trembled in the cold air. He waited—half-expecting thunder, or guilt, or something to strike him down where he knelt.
Nothing came.
Just wind. And the soft weight of autumn. And the bird, still watching him.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“I won’t be Rhoswen anymore,” he said, firmer now, even as tears gathered again. “I’m sorry. I know you chose it. I know you loved it.”
A weak laugh escaped him.
“I picked something myself.”
He rubbed at his nose, cheeks flushed from cold and crying.
“It’s… it’s not the best name,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “It’s kind of ridiculous.”
His shoulders shook with a quiet, breathy laugh.
“But I like it. It’s different. It’s mine.”
He looked up at the stone, eyes shining.
“I’m going to be Spamton.”
He let the name settle. Let it exist.
“Spamton Gardenia Addison.”
Another soft, almost embarrassed laugh bubbled out of him. “See? That’s… that’s not awful, right? It’s unique. Nobody else is going to have that name.”
The bird chirped once, sharp and clear.
He smiled through his tears.
“I’m keeping Gardenia,” he continued, quieter now. “I know it was Grandma’s name. And I know how much she meant to you. I don’t want to throw that away. I don’t want to throw you away.”
His fingers brushed the stone gently.
“I just… I need to be me.”
His chest felt lighter. Not empty—just… open. Like something tightly knotted inside him had finally loosened.
A shaky breath escaped him, half laugh, half sob.
“I was so scared to say that.”
He wiped his face again, though fresh tears kept coming.
“I’m still scared.”
His gaze flicked toward the path behind him, toward the world he’d have to walk back into.
“I don’t know how Pink will take it. Or Blue. Or Yellow. Or Orange. I don’t know if they’ll laugh. Or get mad. Or if they'll even understand.”
His voice trembled.
“I don’t know if they’ll still look at me the same.”
He hugged himself again, rocking slightly.
“I’m tired of being scared,” he whispered.
The wind stirred once more, brushing his curls back from his face. The bird hopped a little closer along the top of the stone.
“I need strength,” he said softly. “Just… a little. Enough to say it out loud to them. Enough to stand there and not crumble if they don’t get it right away.”
His throat tightened.
“And if they don’t… if they don’t accept it… I need to be strong enough to survive that too.”
He reached forward and pressed his palm flat against the cool stone.
“Mama… please still love me.”
His voice broke completely this time.
“I’m still me. I still love music. I still sit in the dirt and watch the bugs. I still cry too easy. I still remember the way you’d hum in the mornings.”
A tear slipped down, landing on the edge of the engraved name.
“I’m just your son.”
The bird fluttered down suddenly, landing in the grass near the bouquet. It pecked lightly at one of the fallen petals, then looked up at him again.
Spamton let out a watery laugh.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I’m taking that as a good sign.”
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs until it almost hurt.
“My name is Spamton G. Addison.”
Saying it again felt steadier. More solid.
“I’m your son.”
The wind eased.
The trees rustled softly overhead.
And for the first time since he’d stepped through the graveyard gates, his chest didn’t feel like it was caving in.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Spamton was pacing.
Back and forth. Back and forth. The worn floorboards of his room creaked beneath his boots as he muttered under his breath, rehearsing words that never seemed to line up quite right.
He was wearing one of his few pairs of proper trousers and a loose tunic—one that didn’t cling to his waist or accentuate the curve of him. His corset was shoved deep into a drawer, out of sight and, if he had his way, out of his life forever.
He’d done his hair differently too. Swept it back.
He’d caught his reflection earlier and, for once, hadn’t flinched.
He actually thought he looked good.
Handsome.
He just hoped his brothers would take him seriously.
Would listen.
Would try to understand.
The Harvest Festival was tomorrow night.
And tonight he was going to tell them he wasn’t wearing the dress.
He wasn’t going as Rhoswen.
Was it shitty that Pink had spent months hand-sewing an intricate, gorgeous gown for him? Yes. Pink had poured hours into that dress.
But Spamton had never asked for it.
He’d thought he’d made that obvious. The missed fittings. The excuses. The way he’d avoided Pink every time measurements were mentioned.
Apparently subtlety hadn’t worked.
He took a deep breath that didn’t quite reach his lungs.
He just had to say it.
And hope to God they’d hear him out.
And if they didn’t…
Well.
He’d simply never leave his room again. That was an option.
Or he’d run off into the woods and become some feral mountain man living off berries and spite.
He huffed at himself and shook his head.
One disaster at a time.
He straightened his shoulders.
He would march down the hall. Sit at the table. And tell them the truth.
He wasn’t their sister.
He was their brother.
Before his courage could evaporate, he opened the door.
The hallway felt longer than usual. Quieter. His boots barely made a sound against the wood as he stepped into the dining area.
Pink and Yellow were already seated, Yellow animatedly rambling about some girl he planned to take to the festival.
Spamton didn’t know her name.
Didn’t care.
Yellow’s flings rarely survived the week.
Pink was only half listening, nodding absently while his fingers traced idle shapes against the table, likely still thinking about hems and thread and whether he’d reinforced the bodice enough.
Pink glanced up as Spamton sat.
Spamton’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. His hands clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms as he deliberately avoided eye contact.
“You alright, White?” Pink asked, concern threading through the exhaustion in his voice.
Spamton nodded too quickly. “Mm fine.” The word came out small. Thin.
He mentally kicked himself.
Pink’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t press. Not yet.
“I’d appreciate if you tried your dress on after dinner,” Pink continued. “The festival’s tomorrow, and you haven’t let me do a fitting in over a month. I’ve no idea if it’ll sit right anymore.”
Spamton’s throat tightened.
Should he tell them now?
No. Not yet. Blue and Orange weren’t here. He couldn’t do this in pieces. He needed all of them.
He forced himself to nod.
Pink turned back to Yellow, who hadn’t paused his words once.
Spamton’s pulse pounded in his ears so loudly it almost drowned them out. He ran through the words again in his head.
I don’t want to wear it.
I’m not Rhoswen.
I’m not your sister.
The sentences felt fragile. Like glass.
Time dragged. Every second stretched thin.
Eventually Blue and Orange entered carrying dinner.
Watery stew. Overcooked vegetables floating in thin broth. No meat.
Yellow hadn’t caught anything today. And they couldn’t afford to buy it.
A bowl was placed in front of him. The room filled with chatter and the clink of spoons against ceramic.
A hand settled gently on his shoulder.
Spamton jolted, breath catching.
Blue.
“You alright, White?” Blue asked softly. “You don’t look too good.”
Spamton swallowed. “I’m fine, Blue.”
Blue frowned, studying him a moment too long. “Please try to eat more than you did last night. You need it.”
Something twisted low in Spamton’s stomach.
He knew he’d gotten thin since Mama passed. Too thin. Grief had hollowed him out, and everything else had simply… piled on top of that. Feelings he didn’t have words for. Expectations he couldn’t carry.
He nodded anyway. “Sure, Blue.”
Blue offered a small, relieved smile before taking his seat.
They began to eat. Or at least pretend to.
The conversation circled endlessly back to the Harvest Festival. Decorations. Music. Who would be there.
Spamton felt like he was drowning in it.
“What about you, White?” Orange asked gently.
Spamton blinked, pulled sharply from his spiraling thoughts. “...What about me?”
“Anyone you’re hoping to dance with?” Orange asked, patient as ever. “The dress Pink made is incredible. You’ll look beautiful. Mama would’ve been so proud.”
Pink smiled faintly at that, though his gaze flicked toward Spamton—watchful now. Measuring.
Spamton’s mouth went dry.
“Uhh…”
“Of course there isn’t,” Yellow cut in with a grin. “What, is a giant beetle lining up to court her? Maybe a snake? She ain’t dancing with anyone.”
Pink shot him a sharp look.
Yellow shot one right back.
“...Not really,” Spamton muttered, staring down at his bowl. He’d taken exactly two spoonfuls.
The broth had gone cold.
“Oh, come on,” Yellow continued. “Even Pink managed to snag a date. And he’s a looker, too.”
Pink hissed, “Knock it off.”
Their voices blurred together after that—teasing, bickering, laughing.
Spamton barely heard any of it.
The words he needed to say pressed against the back of his teeth.
He wasn’t their sister.
He couldn’t keep pretending to be.
He just had to speak.
Before the courage drained out of him completely.
Yellow laughing. Pink snapping back. Blue trying to keep the peace. Orange murmuring something soft that no one really heard.
Spamton’s spoon hovered halfway to his mouth.
He couldn’t feel his hands anymore.
Say it.
Say it now.
If he didn’t do it now, he never would.
“I don’t want to wear it.”
The words came out small—but they cut clean through the chatter.
Silence fell heavy and sudden.
Yellow blinked. “Wear what?”
Pink didn’t blink at all. He just stared.
“The dress,” Spamton clarified, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. “I don’t want to wear it.”
Pink’s fingers slowly curled against the table. “White.”
“I don’t want to go as Rhoswen.” His voice wobbled. He hated that it did. “I don’t want to— I can’t.”
The air shifted. Tightened.
Yellow looked between them, confused. “What’s the big deal? It’s one night.”
“It’s not just one night,” Spamton snapped, louder than he meant to. His heart slammed so hard he felt dizzy. “It’s every night. It’s every day.”
Blue leaned forward slightly. “Rhoswen—”
“Stop calling me that.”
The words cracked out of him like a whip.
Silence again.
Blue froze.
Orange’s eyes widened just slightly.
Pink went very, very still.
Spamton’s hands were shaking now. He shoved them under the table so no one would see.
“I’m not your sister,” he said, voice thin but steadying with every word. “I’m not. I’m not Rhoswen. I never was.”
Yellow let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m your brother.” His throat burned. “I’m your brother and I’m tired of pretending I’m not.”
Pink’s chair scraped slightly as he shifted. “Rhoswen—”
“Spamton,” he blurted. “My name is Spamton.”
It landed in the center of the table like something fragile and sacred.
No one spoke.
He forced himself to keep going before fear swallowed him whole.
“I don’t want the dress. I don’t want the corset. I don’t want to be paraded around like—like—” His voice hitched. “Like something I’m not.”
Yellow’s expression had shifted from teasing to unsettled.
Blue looked stricken. Confused.
Orange looked like he’d somehow known. Expected this.
Pink’s jaw tightened. “I made that dress for you.”
“I know.” The guilt hit him like a punch. “I know you did. And it’s beautiful. It’s incredible. You worked so hard on it.”
His voice cracked anyway.
“But I never asked for it.”
That hurt Pink. It showed.
“Rhoswen.” Pink said, voice firm, gaze sharp enough to cut. “I know you've been struggling without Mom. We all have. It’s hard. It makes everything feel out of control—”
A sob ripped from Spamton’s throat before he could swallow it back. It felt violent, like something tearing loose inside him. His vision blurred instantly, tears burning hot against his eyes.
Blue just stared at him, wide-eyed and frozen, confused. Yellow looked stunned — his mouth parting slightly as he shot a quick, searching glance at Orange.
Orange didn’t speak. He just looked… sad. Quiet. His eyes flicked to Yellow’s, and something unspoken passed between the twins. Confusion. Worry. Doubt.
Spamton’s chest tightened.
He had to keep going. He had to make them see. If he just explained it right — if he said it clearly enough — they’d understand. They had to.
“—Grief messes with your head,” Pink continued, softer now but no less certain. “It makes you feel strange things. This is just some weird… phase. A grief thing. You’ll move on.”
Something inside him snapped.
Spamton shoved back from the table so fast the chair screeched against the floor. He shot to his feet, hands slamming down against the wood hard enough to rattle the dishes.
“I’m being serious!” he shouted, voice breaking despite the force behind it. Tears streamed freely now, and he hated it — hated that they could see him like this. Weak. Emotional. Easy to dismiss.
“This isn’t a phase!” His fingers curled against the table, knuckles whitening. “This isn’t grief talking. This isn’t confusion. This is how I feel.”
His breath hitched painfully.
“I am still the White you know,” he choked. “I’m still me. I still love the same things. I still laugh at Blue’s stupid jokes. I still argue with Yellow. I still—” His voice crumpled. “I’m just your brother. Not your sister.”
His shoulders shook as another sob tore free.
“Please,” he whispered, the word fragile and raw. “I need you to understand.”
The room went quiet after that.
Too quiet.
Spamton’s breathing filled the space — uneven, hitching, humiliatingly loud in his own ears.
Blue swallowed. “White— I mean—” He faltered, visibly scrambling. “I just… I don’t understand. I’m not trying to be mean,” Blue rushed out, hands half-lifting like he didn’t know where to put them. “I just— when did this start? You never said anything before.”
Each word landed heavier than the last.
“I didn't know how,” Spamton responded hoarsely.
“But how?” Blue pressed, brow furrowed, desperation creeping into his voice now. “How can you be sure? What if Pink’s right and it’s just… grief? Mom’s gone. Everything’s different. We’re all different.”
The question wasn’t cruel.
It was scared.
But it still hurt.
Spamton’s stomach dropped. “You think I’d make this up?” he whispered.
“No!” Blue said immediately. “No, I don’t think you’re lying. I just— I don’t get it. What does it even mean? You’re saying you’re our brother now? So what do we do? Are we supposed to just pretend you were never—”
He cut himself off.
Spamton’s face crumpled.
“Don’t,” he said, voice trembling. “Don’t say it like that.”
Blue dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once. “I’m trying, okay? I really am. I just don’t know what we're supposed to do.”
Spamton swallowed hard, throat burning, tears still slipping down his cheeks.
“All I’m asking is for you to try to understand,” he said, voice cracking despite his effort to steady it. “I’m your brother. I need you to stop calling me Rhoswen. I need you to call me Spamton. Use he. Please. Just… help me feel comfortable in my own skin.”
“You’re a girl, Rhoswen.” Pink’s voice cut like glass. He loomed over him, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “This is ridiculous. You’ve always been our only sister. Our parents’ only daughter. You want to just throw that away?”
Spamton shook his head frantically, shoulders trembling as another sob tore out of him. “No—Pink, I’m not throwing anything away—”
“You want to ruin your life on top of everything else?” Pink snapped. “Haven’t we lost enough?”
“I have felt wrong,” Spamton blurted, the words spilling out too fast, too desperate to contain. “Every time someone calls me ‘sister.’ Every time they talk about my ‘future husband.’ Every time I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person staring back at me.”
His hands curled into the fabric of his sleeves, knuckles white.
“This isn’t new,” he said, quieter now but no less fierce. “I just didn’t have the words for it before. I’m not trying to make my life harder. I’m trying to make it easier by finally telling you the truth.”
His breath hitched. “I’m still me. I’m still your sibling. I’m just asking you to see me.”
Pink opened his mouth to argue, brows knitting together, jaw already setting for a fight.
But Orange stood first.
“Guys,” he said, firm but calm, stepping between them like a wall that didn’t need to be loud to be solid. “He’s upset.”
The word hit Spamton like a bell struck clean through his ribs.
He.
Air rushed into his lungs in a shaky gasp. His chest felt lighter, like someone had unbuckled something tight and cruel inside him.
Orange turned, softer now. “You asked us to understand. To help you feel comfortable.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Spamton, right?”
Yellow glanced between them, then barked a short laugh as he leaned back in his chair. “Spamton? What kinda name is that?”
It stung for half a second—then it didn’t.
Spamton let out a wet laugh of his own, scrubbing at his cheeks. This was normal. Yellow teased everyone. It wasn’t different. He wasn’t different.
“I made it up,” he said, shoulders lifting in a tiny shrug. “It’s unique. Nobody else’ll have it.” His gaze flicked toward Pink, then away just as fast. “I’m keeping my middle name.” Quieter now. Careful. “Spamton G. Addison.”
Pink’s glare sharpened—hard, unreadable. Almost disgusted.
That hurt. That really hurt.
Blue cleared his throat. “Alright… Spamton.” His voice was slow, cautious. “I don’t fully understand yet. I’m not gonna pretend I do. But I want to try.”
Spamton’s vision blurred again. He nodded quickly. “Thank you, Blue. That’s all I’m asking.”
Orange tilted his head. “Are you okay with us still calling you White? And… you’re our brother. He, him?”
Spamton swallowed and nodded. “White’s fine. And yeah. He. Him.”
Yellow grinned wide. “Hell yeah. All brothers now. That’s kinda badass.”
A shaky laugh bubbled out of Spamton before he could stop it.
Blue hesitated. “Do you want other people to know?”
“Absolutely not,” Pink snapped, cutting in. “I can’t believe you’re all just—entertaining this.” His eyes locked onto Spamton. “You’re Rhoswen. You’re our sister. This is ridiculous.”
“Pink.” Orange’s voice cracked like a whip. “Enough.”
“What?” Pink shot back. “Why am I the only one saying this? Why am I the only one who thinks this is insane?”
Blue rested a hand on Pink’s shoulder and leaned in, whispering low and fast.
Pink’s anger didn’t disappear—but it shifted. His jaw worked. His eyes flicked toward Spamton, then away. Thinking.
Spamton stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides so tight his nails bit into his palms.
Then Pink grabbed Blue by the arm and hauled him into the next room.
The door shut.
Silence dropped heavy over the table.
Spamton exhaled shakily and looked at the twins like he was afraid the ground might give out beneath him.
Orange offered him a steady, reassuring smile. Yellow gave him a firm nod.
“Thank you,” Spamton said, voice small. “For understanding.”
“Of course, White,” Orange replied gently. “We love you. Pink and Blue do too. They just… need a minute.”
“Yeah,” Yellow added. “Addisons stick together. Like Dad always said.”
The words settled warm in Spamton’s chest.
“Thanks, guys.”
A moment later the door creaked open.
Blue stepped back in first. His expression was still uncertain, but there was a softness to it now. He offered Spamton a tentative smile.
Pink followed.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Not happy.
But not shouting.
Blue stepped forward slightly. “We talked.” He glanced at Pink before looking back at Spamton. “We’re gonna try. We’re gonna do our best to understand. And to help. Okay?”
Spamton’s throat closed up again. He nodded quickly. “Okay. Thank you, Blue.”
Pink’s eyes met his.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Pink exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t get it,” he said, voice rough. Honest. “I don’t like it. But…” His jaw flexed. “You’re still an Addison.”
Spamton’s breath caught.
Pink looked away almost immediately, as if the words had cost him something. “I’m not promising I’ll be perfect about it.”
“I don’t need perfect,” Spamton said quietly. “Just… trying.”
Pink hesitated.
Then, stiff and awkward, he gave a short nod.
It wasn’t acceptance. Not fully.
But it wasn’t rejection either.
Yellow clapped his hands once, breaking the tension. “Alright. So. New brother. Same annoying face.”
“Hey,” Spamton huffed, a watery grin breaking through.
Orange stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Solid. Grounding. Yellow joined from the other side a second later, nearly knocking him over.
Blue hovered only a moment before stepping in too.
After a heartbeat’s hesitation—
Pink stepped closer.
He didn’t wrap his arms around Spamton.
But he rested a hand, firm and steady, on his shoulder.
It was enough.
Spamton squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching as he let himself lean into them—all of them.
Still scared.
Still unsure.
But no longer alone.
And for the first time since he’d said the name out loud—
Spamton felt like he could breathe.