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Description
Choosing clothes is a kind of art. Selecting colours that suit your appearance, cuts that either emphasize or hide parts of your body to your tastes, choosing something that reflects who you are, that means you don’t blend into a group of people and become simply one of them, like a Borg drone to its Cube. And it’s even harder when you need to do things with clothes that few others would even consider an issue, just so you can avoid feelings of disgust about your own body.

“Fucking tits”, you murmured, staring sideways into the mirror. The sports bras did depressingly little to flatten out your chest, even with three layered on top of one another. But there was no way in hell you could afford a binder, so for now this was the best you could do. Besides, if you wore baggy enough t-shirts, maybe people would ignore your, you know, ‘assets’. Your glare at your reflection eventually settled on the offending region on your body and you felt that little twinge, alright, maybe not little, that you knew would turn up at moments like this. Like you were shrinking, and that you wanted to throw up even though you knew there was no physical reason why. You’d been through this enough times across the years to know what would happen next; you’d start to shake, to want to just find a corner, curl up and die. And then you’d close your eyes and bend your head slightly back, the only things left that you could feel being the pulse in your wrist and that voice in your head screaming those four words, the four words that meant so, so much to you, over and over again.

I am a man. I am a man. I am a man.

And then, after you’d just about recovered from that panic attack, you would open your eyes and look in the mirror again, hoping with every ounce of energy you had that when you did, you’d see the boy, no- the man, you knew was there staring back at you; the man everybody said didn’t exist. Swallowing bile, you dug nails into the plasterwork of the walls, gaining courage. Eventually, you opened your eyes just a crack.

Nothing had changed. The guy in the mirror was still the same- unmistakably female, with a round face that would only pass as male on a twelve year old boy, roughly cut short hair that you still remember your family mourning the cropping of, shoulders that were only just wider apart than your hips and a distinct lack of muscle. Oh yeah, and breasts. You turned away, not so much biting your lip as tearing holes through it, digging through a pile of fandom t-shirts to find one that you actually felt like wearing.

“Fucking man titties”, you repeated, your voice shaking on ever syllable, “fucking moobs.”

You pulled on a random t-shirt and stormed out the room, deliberately trying not to look at the wall where the mirror was. Not again. Not twice in one morning. There was only one thing that could possible help you in this situation; shaving. Not that you actually had proper facial hair or anything, but because there was something about it that made everything seem better. That and it helped to remove the fuzz that you’d been told could give you away as biologically female. And you were very happy to use that last point as an excuse, even though you knew it wouldn’t be your fuzzy face that gave you away.

Pulling open the door of the bathroom on the hallway, you let out another string of profanity, in a voice so quiet you were sure nobody would have heard it, even if they had been there. Which you were absolutely sure nobody was. You had almost shut the door behind you when a voice sounded out behind the solid wood. “Hey, dude, just a sec.”

You opened it again to reveal the grinning face of your flatmate, Alfred. You’d first met him back in Sixth form, when he’d first arrived from America and joined your school. You were still were being forced to live as [Fem!Name] back then; you remember that much. As well as that the two of you had become friends almost immediately, bonding over a mutual love of video games and terrible films. And that after two years of knowing him, Alfred had been the first person you even came out to. You still remember the words he said after you first told him you were a boy “Well, I… I kinda already guessed that.” If there was anybody you could talk to about this, it was the blond American standing in front of you.

“Al, is it really important? Because I’m having a moment now and…”

“There’s something for you come in the post.”

You paused. “What is it?”

He shrugged, in the way that showed he knew exactly what it was. “You’re just gonna have to open it.”

“Give me a couple of seconds. Please.”

Alfred backed away, which was just as well as you slammed the door shut just behind him, missing his face by an inch. Turning around and sliding the lock shut, you sank to the ground, leaning back against the hard wooden door. You noticed you were panting, which really didn’t make sense, given that you’d done pretty much no exercise that day. Something you needed to rectify immediately; the more muscle mass you had, the better chance you’d be able to feel slightly less shit about your body. For now, swearing would do.

“Crap. Shit. Arse. Tit. Wank. Fuck.”

After about fifteen minutes of repeating this like a mantra, you finally crawled out of the bathroom, barely noticing you hadn’t actually shaved. You started to walk towards the front door, expecting that Alfred would have just left the parcel there. Except somebody whistled behind you in the hallway and you turned around, to find yourself looking at a grinning Alfred and holding a parcel in your hands. “Go on, open it”, he said, with a voice that could light up a room better than sunshine. Wrestling with the tape around the packet, you eventually managed to tear it open with your teeth, revealing a seethrough packet that contained…

Oh Lord; that wasn’t what you thought it was, was it?

“Al, it’s… it’s…”

“Yeah?”

“A chest binder.”

You looked back up at him, your shocked (e/c) eyes meeting his blue ones. His smile was even wider now. “But how did you know what size…”

“You kept googling second hand binder Uk….”

“Yeah, alright”, you murmured, still not believing this was real. “But why? Why did you get it for me?”

“Um, maybe because I don’t like my bro having panic attacks every morning. Maybe because I want him to not be terrified to go out in public. Maybe because I want him not to be forced to…”

“To what?”

Silence. Alfred obviously didn’t take kindly to being interrupted. You tried asking again, feeling a little guilty. “What?”

“To be forced to wear baggy shirts because he has no alternatives.”

Your throat went dry and it was about a minute before you felt comfortable speaking again. “Alfred.”

His face dropped. “Yeah?”

“You are the best bro any guy could ever have.”

He smiled again and placed an arm on your shoulder. “So are you [Name]. So are you.”