#I have started to try teaching my beagle the words ‘inside voice’

[bellakitse]

show me love (in all the things you do)

Five times Michael showed his love for Alex with a kind gesture, and the one time, Alex returned the favor with a big gesture.

1.

Michael looks up at the sound of tires on gravel and frowns as he hears something else, it’s low, but still there. He waits for Alex to park and get out of his SUV.

“Guerin, I brought the pictures,” he says instead of a greeting showing him a manila folder he’s carrying.

“There’s a rattle to your car,” Michael says at the same time stopping Alex short. He looks at his car and then back at Michael.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Alex answers with an unconcerned shrug that makes Michael roll his eyes.

“Yeah, well, you suck at cars,” Michael answers a little testy. “But, I heard it.”

Alex raises an eyebrow at him. “I think we have more important things to go over than this rattle you heard,” Alex answers him, the air quotes over rattle evident in his tone.

“Not more important than car safety,” Michael shoots back. ‘Not more important than your safety’ he doesn’t say vocally, but he thinks Alex hears it anyway as his expression softens.

They’re getting better at this, they’re never going to be the kind of men whom words come easily too, but they’ve been working hard at understanding what isn’t being said out loud without turning it into a worst-case scenario.

“Well,” Alex starts, his voice soft. He walks toward Michael, taking his hand and placing his keys in them. “Since I don’t know anything about cars like you said, I would appreciate it if you took a look at it to make sure it’s okay.”

He holds on to Michael’s hand, squeezing it before he lets go. It leaves Michael feeling warm.

Michael nods, biting down on the strange urge to say thank you. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for letting me take care of you.

“The stuff you want to compare to your pictures is in the airstream,” he waves towards his home. “Go see if it’s worth anything while I check this out.”

Alex opens his mouth like he wants to say something else; in the end, he gives him a quirk of his lips and does as Michael says. Michael watches him go until he’s inside the airstream before he starts to work on Alex’s SUV; he’s never been able to not look at Alex until he’s out of sight. He tried for a while when he thought easy was what he wanted, and all it proved was that it was an exercise in pointlessness. He’s never been able to look away from Alex, not really.

In the end, he finds that the noise is because Alex’s car is in pressing need of an oil change. Alex, now sitting in his chair with a beer in his hand, looks at him blankly when he tells him so.

“You do know cars need oil from time to time, right?” he asks, biting down on a grin when Alex shifts in his seat like he hadn’t realized.

A thought enters Michael’s mind, and now he doesn’t hold back his smile. “Do you even know how to change the oil, Alex?”

Alex shoots him an annoyed look, but Michael can see some pink in his cheeks. “I have you for that,” Alex says quietly after a moment looking at Michael from under his lashes.

Michael feels the words under his ribcage. It takes him a moment to catch his breath from the depth of them. He can read what’s underneath them.

“Yeah,” he says just as softly. “You do.”

2.

Alex is focused and determined to the point of self-neglect sometimes. Michael has never known someone so smart and capable, but who could forget something as simple as remembering to eat. He arrives at Jesse Manes’ old bunker. Now, Alien headquarters, and feels the same kind of grim satisfaction he always feels when he steps into it, thinking how much it would infuriate the bastard to know that aliens have taken over his little clubhouse and now use it for the sole purpose of bringing him down, with his youngest son leading the charge.

He finds Alex where he left him the evening before, in the same t-shirt, telling him all he needs to know. Alex hasn’t moved from his computers all night.

“I ran into Maria in town with Buffy,” he calls out, placing the bags of takeout on the main table in the center of the bunker.

“I asked her to check in on her,” Alex answers, still typing away.

“She told me,” Michael answers, pulling out styrofoam containers with Arturo’s enchiladas with red and green sauce, just the way Alex likes them. “She said that if you can’t be a responsible dog dad, she’s going to file for custody of her niece.”

Alex snorts, and Michael guesses the reaction makes sense. Buffy might have warmed up to all of them, Maria the most since she was there when Alex rescued her, but the beagle adores Alex with a passion that rivals Michael’s. No one is taking her away from him; he’s more than sure Buffy wouldn’t let it happen. Alex turns in his chair, lifting a brow when he spots the food.

“What’s all this?” he asks carefully.

“You’ve been staring at those screens way too long if you don’t recognize Arturo’s specialty,” he comments, taking out a second container with his own food. “Now, why don’t you come over here and join me, and if you’re good and eat all your food, there might be a triple chocolate shake in here for you as dessert.”

Alex stands up, making a face down at his leg, and Michael can only imagine how sore it must be from Alex having it on for so long. He spots Alex’s crutch and silently floats it over to Alex. He’s looking down at his food as he cuts into it, but he can feel Alex’s eyes on him as he walks over to the table.

“Christmas style,” Alex says quietly, and when Michael looks up, he finds Alex giving him a grateful smile. He nods back at him as he takes a bite of his food and gestures towards the free space on the couch next to him. Silently he’s grateful Valenti insisted on adding it to the bunker, even if he thinks it gives Alex an excuse to stay down here longer since now he has a place to lay down when he needs rest.

Alex sits next to him, and they eat in silence, only the sound of their forks scraping the bottom filling the room as they finish their food.

“That was so good,” Alex sighs happily, his eyes drooping as he gets comfortable on the couch. Michael puts the garbage back in the bags before reclaiming his place next to Alex. “I could eat my weight in Arturo’s food.”

Michael lifts Alex’s right leg to his lap and starts to do a quick job of taking off Alex’s shoe, followed by the prosthetic, his pant’s leg rolled up. Alex doesn’t startle like he did the first time Michael did this after Alex pulled long hours in the bunker, now he just sinks deeper into the couch, his eyes barely opened as Michael starts to massage the sore muscles. Michael watches him, the way he’s gone soft and relaxed under his touch. How comfortable they are with each other, it’s good, but he wants more.

“Maybe we can do it again,” he starts, pressing a firm thumb under Alex’s knee, right above where his leg ends. Alex lets out a moan, and it makes Michael’s stomach quiver. “Outside, like a date,” he blurts out, and he feels Alex still under his hands. He holds his breath, waits a moment before finally moving his gaze from Alex’s leg to his face.

The shy smile, and brightness of Alex’s eyes help him let go of the breath he’s holding.

“I’d really like that.”

3.

They're all over at Isobel's, he and Max are by the grill. Isobel is making margaritas in the kitchen, regular for the group, and virgin for Rosa, while the resurrected teenager looks on. Valenti is in a corner with Cameron looking like he's trying to make some serious heart eyes in her direction, much to her amusement if the smirk on her lips is anything to go by. While the human trio that is Liz, Alex and Maria are a few feet away from them, laughter breaking out as Maria recounts some date she went on the night before.

"Not to blame the victim," He overhears Liz say. "But this is kind of your fault, didn't we establish never to date guys named Chad? Did the last Chad teach you nothing?

Alex nods in agreement as Maria frowns at both of them.

"He seemed nice," she argues, which earns a snort from both Liz and Alex.

"I don't care if he's a saint," Alex says with a scrunched up face that is cuter than it has any right to be. "Chads are such, Chads."

Maria opens her mouth like she wants to argue some more but in the end, deflates with an exhale. "Yeah, when you're right, you're right."

The humans keep talking, but Michael's focus is on his boyfriend. He looks good in his slim jeans and grey Henley with his sleeves pushed up. He fights the urge to walk over and press himself against him, but they both promised Isobel not to, as she puts it, ‘slobber all over each other.’

He takes offense at the description and the accusing tone with which she said it. There's nothing wrong with wanting to touch and kiss Alex all the time if you’re lucky to have the privilege to do so.

He turns his back to the walking temptation that is Alex Manes and tries to focus on something else. Max is looking fine as he handles the grill and doesn’t seem to need Michael’s help, so he focuses on the small garden Isobel has started.  Flowers litter her yard in what should be a colorful mess but instead give the area vibrancy. He touches a few petals here and there, finally plucking a red carnation.

"Isobel's not going to like that," Alex whispers close to his ear, having walked over to him without Michael noticing.

"You're not going to rat me out, are you?" he asks, turning around to face him, smiling when Alex gets closer to him, as he places his hands on Michael’s hips.

"I'll try not to, but she is a mind reader," Alex teases, grinning when Michael pulls him closer still.

"I'll give you a flower if you hold out," Michael says, presenting him the red carnation. He expects Alex to laugh or roll his eyes. Instead, his face goes soft as he takes the small flower in his hand like it's something precious.

Liz calls out his name, but Alex continues to look at him.

"No one's ever given me a flower before," Alex says softly, running his fingers over the petals, and he gives Michael a wide smile before he walks back to his friend.

*

It sticks with him. That smile on Alex's face over something so simple like a flower sticks with him the rest of the night and then the rest of the week. It sticks with him as he goes into the flower shop on Main street, and as he picks every single flower with careful consideration before he drives out to Alex's cabin with the small bouquet held together by a slim yellow ribbon.

He makes his way up Alex’s walkway with the flowers in his hand, using the key Alex gave him months ago even before they started this up again to open the door. Buffy greets him with an enthusiastic bark, her owner nowhere in sight.

"Alex?" he calls out, taking his boots off to leave them by the entrance. He spots snacks on the coffee table in the living room, and Netflix queued up on the TV, a mellow date is what they usually prefer.

"I'm coming," he gets as an answer from the kitchen. He holds his breath as he hears Alex start to make his way to him.

"Hey, perfect timing, I just turned off the chili," Alex says with a smile as he moves in to greet him.

Michael pulls the bouquet from behind his back, practically thrusting it in Alex's face in his nervousness, Alex startles back, eyeing the flowers and then Michael.

Michael feels his cheeks grow hot, feeling ridiculous before Alex takes the flowers from him.

Holding them close to his face, he breathes them in before he looks back at Michael with the same smile from the other day.

"They’re perfect, thank you," he says quietly. He heads back into the kitchen to put them in water and comes back moments later with two bowls of food.

Two episodes of ‘Queer Eye’ later, Michael is full, warm, and being lulled to sleep as Alex rests practically on him, his head tucked under Michael’s chin, his arms around his waist. He lifts his head, pressing his lips under Michael’s jaw.

“They’re beautiful,” he whispers against his skin. “Happy five months, Michael.”

Michael tightens his hold on him in response.

4.

Maria likes to host events at the Wild Pony and make them participate, he doesn’t know if it’s their love for her or fear, but usually when Maria wants something they all fall in line. Last month it was Alex and Liz belting out 90’s rock like it was their job. The month before that, it was Max, Kyle, and Michael helping out for her ladies' night by serving drinks shirtless. He’s still not sure what Alex said to get out of it, but he remembers the love of his life sitting with Liz and Isobel, smirking in his direction as the female population of Roswell objectified him.

Maria doesn’t ask him to play on her open mic night, but she flashes him a smile of gratitude when she sees him at the sign-up sheet. He figures it’s killing two birds with one stone. He helps someone he cares about, and he shows Alex something he’s been wanting to show him for years.

He’s sitting next to Alex, his knee bouncing, and he’s barely heard the conversation his friends are having around him. Alex places a hand on his thigh, stilling it. He looks at Michael with a worried look.

Michael opens his mouth to reassure him, but he spots Maria making her way up the makeshift stage. He threads his fingers through Alex’s hair and pulls him in for a kiss that Alex returns easily.

“Michael?” Alex asks, concern creeping into his voice.

He presses his forehead against Alex’s, but he doesn’t answer his question, not when Maria is telling the bar of their first participant of the night and calling his name.

Alex pulls back and looks at him with surprised eyes. He just smiles, hoping it hides his nerves, and with one last kiss, he makes his way up to the stage. Maria hands him a guitar with a wink and a ‘go get em.’ Sitting down, he adjusts the mike to where he wants it and picks up the guitar. Looking out at the crowd, he finds his friends all watching him, curious but supportive.

“When I was seventeen,” he starts, licking his lips as he talks. He’s never been one to be open about his feelings, but with Alex, he struggles daily not to shout from the rooftops how in love he is. “I saw a boy I loved, and I’ve never looked away since,” he continues, he thinks he sees that idiot Wyatt make a rude gesture out of the corner of his eye, but it doesn’t matter, not when he finds Alex staring at him in rapt attention. “This is his song,” he finishes.

He places his fingers over the right cords, closes his eyes, and starts to play a song that has been Alex’s since he wrote it over a decade ago. It’s always been his, even when he couldn’t play due to his hand, the song has been Alex’s, just like Michael has been Alex’s.

The song comes to an end, and only then does Michael open his eyes; he doesn’t hear the applause or sees anyone but Alex.

Just Alex.

5.

Alex has been making faces when he thinks he isn’t looking, and Michael knows it’s because of his new prosthetic. When Michael questions if it’s bothering him too much, Alex waves him away, telling him it’s always like this with a new one and that he’ll get used to it soon enough.

Not that it will get better or that the discomfort will go away, no, just that he’ll get used to it. Which in Alex speak means that it’s always going to hurt him, he’s just going to ignore it.

It makes Michael want to hold him close and protect him from anything that causes him pain but also shake him for accepting the pain like it’s his lot in life.

He doesn’t bring it up again because it will probably lead to a fight. Instead, Michael does what he does best, he sciences the shit out of the problem. He studies everything he can get his hands on about the best prosthetics on the market. He sucks it up and talks to Valenti about what he wants to do, and tries not to scowl when the good doctor looks at him like he’s proud of him, before loading him up on all the information he can gather in the hospital about artificial limbs. Armed with all his tools he gets to work, he’s a genius after all; it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.

It takes him six weeks to build something he thinks is worthy, longer than he expected, and he’s annoyed at himself for taking so long. Alex is still carrying an air of discomfort, and it bothers him.

Alex, of course, notices.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks as they get ready for bed while Alex goes through his nightly PT’s. “You’ve been moody for days.”

Michael looks over at the closet, where he’s hiding the finished prosthetic. He finished it the day before, and Michael marvels at Alex’s timing.

“I have been working on something, and it’s been giving me trouble,” Michael answers, sitting up when Alex stops what he’s doing to look at him.

“The ship?” Alex questions calmly, they’ve come a long way from when his ship was a touchy subject between them.

Michael shakes his head and without a word, gets up and walks towards his closet, pulling out the carefully wrapped limb.

“I made this for you,” he says nervously, placing it on the bed for Alex. He watches and waits for him to unwrap it, swallowing hard when Alex lets out a gasp.

“I’ve worked out all the calculations, weight distribution, the mobility and dexterity you require,” he rushes to explain. “It’s lighter and better cushioned. It shouldn’t cause you as much soreness as the one you have.”

Alex doesn’t look at him; he stares at the prosthetic, reaching out to touch it with shaking fingers.

“Say something,” he whispers, worried when Alex remains silent, his worry spiking up when Alex finally looks up at him with tears running down his face.

“Alex,” he starts, alarmed, but Alex doesn’t let him get anything else out. He finds himself with an armful of Alex Manes, as he crawls into his lap and holds him tight. Michael runs his hands up and down Alex’s back, trying to soothe him, waiting until Alex has calmed down enough to speak.

Alex pulls back, he looks down at the prosthetic and then again at Michael, fresh tears clinging to his lashes. “I love you so much,” Alex whispers, the words hitting Michael square in the chest the way they always do when Alex speaks them.

Alex leans in, pressing his forehead against his, letting out a slow exhale. “Thank you, Michael.”

+1

Michael is in his bunker a week later, tinkering with some compounds when he hears someone come down the ladder. He smiles, knowing who it is, his smile only growing as he watches Alex land on his feet with ease.

“Hey,” he calls out, getting a greeting in return.

“I brought burgers,” Alex says placing the bag he’s carrying on the table.

Michael looks at it, his stomach jumping as he finds a carnation on top of the bag. He picks it up and brings it to his nose before he looks over at Alex. He’s not looking at him but Michael spots his smile anyway. He places the carnation in a glass of water before they sit on his old couch with food in hand.

Catching up on each other’s day, Alex tells him he ran into Liz and she wants them to come over for dinner at Max’s. He watches with a growing frown as every once in a while, Alex rubs his knee.

“Is it bothering you?” he finally questions when they’re done, and Alex is gathering their trash.

“Hmm?”

“Your leg, is it bothering you?” he asks again. “You’ve been rubbing it. I can make adjustments if you need them.”

Alex turns to face him, leaning against Michael’s work table. “The prosthetic is perfect, Michael,” he reassures him. “I’m pretty sure I could run a marathon with it if I were a glutton for punishment.”

Michael laughs at the joke, the worry that had been building easing up. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Alex nods, lifting his leg, flexing it one way and another. “It’s made everything easier,” he answers before he licks his lips, his hand twitching at his side, and Michael frowns again, realizing that while he’s been worried about Alex’s leg, he’s missed that Alex is nervous.

“Including kneeling,” Alex tells him, in a way that sounds meaningful before he does precisely that, and kneels in front of Michael, resting a hand on Michael’s knee.

“I like where this is going, darling,” he teases in the hope that the tension he sees in Alex’s shoulders will loosen. It seems to work as Alex rolls his eyes at him.

“That’s not where I’m going with this, Michael,” Alex says, rolling his eyes again, though it loses it’s punch when there’s a fond smile on his face.

“Well, where are you going with this then?” he asks.

“Where I’m going with this is, this,” Alex takes a deep breath, sticking his hand in his pocket to take out a small black velvet box.

Michael is pretty sure he’s lost the ability to breathe.

“I’m not good at showing how much I love you,” Alex starts, quietly, his eyes never straying from Michael’s. “Not the way you are, Michael. You show me you love me in all the things you do. Changing my car’s oil, picking me wildflowers, making sure I eat because I forget to when I’m working. You stand in front of a crowd and sing me a song you wrote just for me. You build me a leg because you didn’t want me to be in pain. You show me so much love in a million ways and I don’t always know how to show you that I feel the same.”

“Alex,” he whispers, reaching out he touches Alex’s face. His breath catching as Alex turns his head to press a kiss at his palm.

“But I hope you know how much I love you, I’ve always loved you and I always will,” Alex continues, opening the box to reveal a simple gold band before taking Michael’s hand in his. “Marry me?” he asks, the words barely out of his mouth before Michael is hauling him up, dragging him to his lap, his mouth covering Alex’s.

Alex lets him manhandle him, laughing breathlessly into the kiss.

“Is that a yes?” he teases.

When Michael finally lets him breathe, he slips the ring onto Michael’s finger. Michael nods, not bothering with words as he presses Alex into the couch, pulling him into another kiss; he rather show him than tell him anyway.

[lousylark]

blue lace

(part 6. Read the previous part here, read the first part here. This is a bite-sized part because halfway through is where I decided to switch the story from being in past-tense to present-tense, so sorry about that lol. But the chapter is really long anyway so breaking it into two parts should be fine.)

- 

Spring 7th. Maurice’s Inn. Morning. 

When Klaus stepped outside that morning, the world seemed noticeably lighter. 

As he locked the door of his home behind him, he took a deep breath in through the nose. The air felt wet, though not in an unpleasant way; rather, it foretold the arrival of Spring — and not a moment too soon, seeing as a week had gone by since the dawn of the New Year. 

On his walk to town, he was surprised to find that most of the snow had melted overnight. Perhaps the farmers would finally be able to plant — he’d heard grumblings around town of a possible slow-down in the local economy thanks to spring’s late arrival. 

In fact, the weather was so nice that he didn’t even miss his heavier jacket. Since Minori had yet to return his winter coat, he’d been wearing a lighter jacket the past several days. Not, of course, that he minded too much. He had seen her wearing it two days ago while walking through town and hadn’t failed to notice the charming way she tucked her nose inside the collar to hide her face from the cold. 

Such were dangerous thoughts, however, and he pushed them away, deep into the crevices of his heart, as he stepped into the lobby of Maurice’s Inn. 

“Klaus!” Maurice greeted even before he had closed the door behind him. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Klaus tipped his hat. “I have a meeting with some of your guests, actually.” 

“Ah, I see.” Maurice leaned on the counter on his elbows. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

He started to take off his coat. “No, I —“ And then he paused. He was a little thirsty. “Actually, yes, thank you, Maurice.” 

Maurice grinned. “Good man. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared through a door behind the counter, which, Klaus assumed, led to his family’s personal living space. 

Klaus took his time in taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack. He took a deep breath in through the nose. The Inn smelled of fresh flowers and cinnamon, with a dash of chai and green tea. He looked to the welcome desk: a vase of fresh daisies sat atop the wooden counter. He wondered who had managed to find such lovely flowers amidst the recent winter weather. He had always wanted to try a flower-and-chai scented perfume. Maybe the Inn would be his inspiration.

A loud pair of feet clunked down the stairs. He looked up to find Melanie, the younger of Maurice’s two daughters, clad in a rain jacket and boots. 

Her eyes widened when she saw him. She froze on the stairwell, surprised. “Hi Mr. Shultz!”

He nodded at her. “Good morning, Melanie. How are you?”

Her grin could singlehandedly light up a theater — not unlike her father. 

“Great!” she chirped, practically flying down the rest of the stairs until she was at the bottom step. She draped herself over the railing — strangely lavishly for her next words: “I’m going to hunt for worms with Lutz.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Worms?”

She nodded. “It’s the perfect weather to find them — all muddy. You know?”

“Indeed,” he said, “but why worms?”

“Otmar said he’d teach us to fish when the river thawed,” she explained hastily. “But we gotta find bait, first.”

“Ah. You’d best get to it, then. I hear worms are easiest to find in the morning.”

Her eyebrows practically rose to her hairline. “Really? I didn’t know that!” 

She raced past him toward the door, swinging it open. A pleasantly warm breeze blew into the lobby. 

Before she left, she looked up at him, still grinning, and said, “Thanks, Mr. Shultz. I owe you one!”

The door slammed behind her. Though he chuckled at her youthful excitement, Klaus couldn’t help but wonder when we’d gotten so old that the youngsters of the town had started calling him ‘Mr. Shultz” rather than Klaus. It was a thought he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to ponder.

Thankfully, Maurice came back with a glass of water, providing him with a distraction.

“Here you go, Klaus,” he said, and Klaus approached to grab the water. “Sorry it’s a mug, not a glass. I haven’t had time to do the dishes the past few days.”

“Not a problem, Maurice,” he replied, raising the glass to his lips. “I’m less likely to spill with the handle, anyway.” 

Maurice’s eyes sparkled. “You’re always findin’ that silver lining, aren’t you? Well, I’ll leave you to your meeting.” As Klaus started toward the staircase, he added, “Just yell if you need anything, alright?”

“Will do, Maurice,” he said. “Thank you.” 

Raeger’s Restaurant. Morning. 

After finishing her morning chores, Minori found herself once again sitting at the counter of Raeger’s restaurant. Her sketchbook was open to a blank page — well, blank, minus the drop of coffee she’d accidentally spilled in the corner. 

She groaned, throwing her head against the book. 

“Still stumped about White Day?” Raeger asked. He stood behind the counter, cleaning out a coffee pitcher with a wet dish towel.

“Yeah,” she said, but the sound was muffled by her sketchbook. “It’s like my mind is…totally blank. I have no idea how to throw a White Day festival without it seeming overly cheesy, and I don’t want it to be focused solely on romance. It has to attract families, too.”

Raeger scoffed. “Come on, you don’t usually admit defeat so easily. You’ve gotta have something up your sleeve.” 

She finally lifted her head from the counter, leaning it on one hand. “Literally all I’ve got is “Under the Sea” and “White and Black” — you know, ‘cause it’s White Day?”

Raeger looked at her strangely — and then smiled lop-sidedly. 

“Yeah, those really are kinda weak,” he jibed.

She picked her sketchbook up off the counter and whacked him with it. He only laughed in response. 

“You’re so unhelpful,” she grumbled.

“Hey, come on, Nor,” he said, hopping up to sit on the counter next to her. “You’re usually full of ideas. What’s so different about this?”

She sighed. “I don’t know…”

“I don’t know,” he parroted — in a rather terrible impression of her voice, she thought. “It’s that crazy French lady that’s staying with Elise, isn’t it?”

She pouted. “No!” A pause. “Okay, maybe.” She threw her head against the sketchbook again. “I don’t know.” 

Raeger put a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her head. For a moment, looking into his sweet, puppy-dog eyes, she realized it wasn’t any wonder Lillie was so terribly besotted with him.

“You’ve never let someone get in your way before, Nor,” he said, his tone significantly gentler. “Not your stubborn cows, or Giorgio, or even Elise. Why is Madame Dupont any different?”

She sighed, averting her gaze. “I don’t know.”

The door to the restaurant opened. Otmar hobbled in. He looked particularly put-together today, with a bright blue rain jacket and big brown boots. 

“Hiya, kids,” he said through whistling dentures. 

“Hey, Otmar,” Minori said — but she couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice.

He tottered over to the counter, using his cane to propel himself onto one of the bar stools. “Why, what’s with the long face? Youngsters like you shouldn’t have any reason to look so sad.” 

Minori managed a half-smile. “I have to throw together a brand new festival by the end of the day, or else our Business Mentor is gonna roast me over an open fire.” 

He titled his head to one side like a Beagle asking for a treat. “You mean that slim lady with the high heels? And the…the hair?”

Minori nodded. “That’s the one.”

He whistled. “Her eyes are so icy I almost slipped and fell on my bum watchin’ her walk through town.”

Minori burst out laughing at that — she couldn’t help it.

Raeger hopped off the counter. “Hey, good work Otmar. That’s the first time she’s laughed this morning.”

“Always willing to help a friend in need,” Otmar said, flashing a toothy smile. “If anyone wants to help this friend in need, I can’t remember where I put my vitamins.”

“Did you check the drawer under the cash register?” Minori asked. “They were there last time.”

Otmar’s eyes lit up. “By golly, they were, weren’t they!”

She nodded — she didn’t know why, but her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. “U-Uh huh.”

Otmar somehow seemed to understand. He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to her. It looked slightly used, but she didn’t really mind in the moment. Raeger kindly turned back to his dish washing as the first tear rolled down her cheek.

“Now don’t you let that scary woman get to you, little lady,” Otmar said over the sound of her nose-blowing. “You’re a right bit stronger than her, y’see? Now what’s this festival you have ta plan?”

“It’s for White Day,” she explained — or rather, hiccuped. She had a nasty habit of crying when she was even just a bit frustrated. “We have to come up with…some sort of celebration that’ll make money.”

Otmar’s eyes lit up. “White Day? Well why didn’t ya say so!”

Raeger paused in his dishwashing. Minori, too, put the handkerchief down.

“What?” 

“Back in my youth,” Otmar explained, “this town’d have an annual White Day lunch auction.”

“A lunch auction?” Minori repeated.

He nodded. “A lunch auction.” 

She thought he was going to say more, but he simply stared at the far wall, eyes full of nostalgia.

Raeger took over. “Uh, Otmar?” he asked gently. “What’s a lunch auction?”

Otmar shook his head. “What? What was that? Munch oxen?”

“A lunch auction,” Minori clarified. 

“I haven’t been to a lunch auction in years!” he cried. His eyes glimmered with excitement. “A lunch auction is when all the little ladies anonymously make a lunch — but really they put ‘em in a pretty bag or tie ‘em up real special so their beaus know which lunch is theirs. And then they auction off the lunches. Whichever little lad is willing to pay the most gets to eat lunch with the lady who made it!”

Minori raised an eyebrow. “So it’s like…auctioning off a date?”

“You betcha,” he said, nodding. “It died down over the years ‘cause payin’ for a lady’s time became more…frowned upon, ya see.” He paused, clicking his teeth together. “But I bet’cha could tweak it and make it socially acceptable for the maidens and their misters here in town.”

The gears started turning in her mind. There were a lot of eligible bachelors and bachelorettes in town — and famous ones for that matter, like Elise and Raeger, whose participation would certainly draw a crowd, even from Norchester. And not only that, but the preparation on the board’s end would be minimal: all they had to do was arrange somewhere for the event to take place (the Trade Depot), find an auctioneer (Mistel would be perfect!), and advertise with flyers or a radio program (which Kassie had already offered to do as soon as she had the idea). Check, check, and —

“Minori?” Raeger asked, nudging her. “You alright?”

She grabbed her sketchbook and a pen. “Otmar, can you tell me more about this lunch auction? What kind of space did you use? What were the decorations like? The auctioning process? The entry guidelines?”

Otmar blinked. Raeger only laughed. 

Maurice’s Inn — Licorice’s Room. Mid-morning. 

Klaus waited patiently as Licorice and Kamil glanced over the journal. 

They had been sitting there for several minutes, both quietly reading the pages he’d marked that covered what he believed to be the flower he was looking for, Mundavi Meum. He was getting nervous — his knee bounced, his eye twitched. He focused on another of Marian’s anti-dissociating tricks: name a food that starts with every letter of the alphabet. 

Apple, Banana, Clementine. That was easy enough. 

They kept reading. He put a hand on his knee to keep it from bouncing. 

…Gourd, Honey…Jasmine? Did herbs count as food?

He glanced up. Both were still reading. Licorice smelled like daisies. He wondered if she’d been the one to put the vase of daisies on the counter downstairs. 

…Milk. Which made him think of cows, which made him think of a farm, which made him think of — 

Kamil hummed, pulling Klaus out of his mental whirlwind.

“Sorry, Klaus,” he said, sinking back into his chair with a resigned sigh. “I’ve never heard of this flower before.”

He felt his heart skip a beat in his chest, and then it sank deep to his stomach. So that was it, then.

Licorice, however, kept her eyes on the page. “I have,” she said, her voice soft even in the quiet room.

Klaus almost dropped his mug of water, the one Maurice had given him. As a precaution, he set it down on the floor before asking, “You have?” He really hadn’t been expecting this.

Licorice nodded. “Do you have a piece of paper? Something to write on?”

He fumbled with the button on the pocket of his sports coat, but managed to produce a receipt from Raeger’s restaurant and a pen. He handed them to Licorice.

She scratched a few notes on the piece of paper. The silence made his chest ache.

Finally, she said, “You’re missing a word. The Latin name of the flower is Mundavi Cor Meum — ‘Separate From My Heart’ is the literal translation.” She paused to return the receipt and the pen. “But it’s much more commonly referred to as ‘Blue Lace.’”

Klaus raised an eyebrow. He didn’t even glance at the paper — he was too fixated on every word she said. “Blue Lace?” 

She nodded. “The name is based on its appearance. The petals are extremely delicate, and it’s rare for a flower to be royal blue.” 

“Blue Lace,” he breathed. The name was like a benediction. “Incredible.”

Licorice nodded — but her eyes remained guarded. “It’s a wonder of nature, but I…I’m afraid I’ve never seen the flower in person, Klaus. It’s incredibly difficult to grow, as you’ll see from the instructions I wrote for you, and thus exceedingly rare. It also wilts exceptionally soon after harvesting.”

“But it exists,” he said. “Yes?”

She took a deep breath and held it, contemplating the answer. Then, her chest deflated, and she replied, “Yes. Technically. In very rare circumstances, and not often in the wild. It must be cultivated and cared for with the gentlest of hands.” She glanced at Kamil. “I’m not even sure either of us have the skill to plant it, let alone see it to harvest.”

“No matter,” he said, waving a hand. “I have faith.”

“Faith won’t water your flowers, Klaus,” Kamil pointed out, albeit gently. “If Licorice doesn’t think she can plant it, it’s a real long shot.” 

Licorice’s cheeks turned pink at the subtle compliment. Nonetheless, she said, “Kamil’s right. It would be really, really difficult —“

“But what of its healing properties?” Klaus asked. He felt only a little guilty for so blatantly interrupting her. “Surely the turnout is worth the risk?”

Licorice tilted her head to one side. “Healing properties?”

Klaus stood from his chair. He was too restless; he needed to move. 

“Mundavi — Blue Lace,” he corrected himself, pacing the room, “is known only in legend to chemists of my line of work. The scent of the flower is said to have…unimaginable healing properties,” he explained. “If I could harvest the flower and concoct a perfume from its aroma, I could —“ 

He stopped himself. Swallowed. Reeled himself back in.

“I could do a lot of good,” he finished. He looked back and forth between Licorice and Kamil. “You truly know nothing of the legend?”

Licorice shook her head. Kamil, too, looked at a loss. 

Klaus collapsed back into his chair. He pinched his nose between two fingers.

“Very well,” he said, his voice soft. “We’ll start with this: do you know where I could find the seeds to grow this flower?” 

Licorice shook her head. “That’s a question for Kamil, not me. I don’t have contacts like that.” 

Klaus, thus, looked to Kamil. With his sweater vest and newsies cap, he reminded Klaus a little of his younger self. He hoped for Kamil’s sake, however, that this was not the case. 

“I can see what I can do,” Kamil said. “But it might take days, even weeks, if I find anyone at all.”

Klaus nodded. “I understand. It’s taken me years to get even to this point.”

Licorice’s eyes widened. “Y-Years?”

“Years,” he affirmed. 

He supposed that was the moment when the gravity of his search finally sunk in for Kamil and Licorice: their eyes darkened with sadness, though both looked at him with a new degree of understanding. Klaus wondered, briefly, if they were related, or even just a couple: their mannerisms were unorthodoxly similar. He sometimes saw Lillie and Raeger do the same thing. Perhaps it was the result of being friends since childhood. 

“I’ll find the seeds for you, Klaus,” Kamil said, his voice low with sincerity. “I promise.”

Klaus chuckled dryly. 

“When you get to be my age, you won’t believe in promises anymore,” he said, a hint of bitterness to his tone. His gaze softened, however. “But I do appreciate the sentiment.” He tucked Licorice’s notes into his journal to look at later. “Thank you, both of you, for your help. You have no idea what it means to me.”

Elise’s Manor. Lunch. 

Nadi was oddly muscular for a landscaper.

Seeing as the weather had finally warmed up, Elise had decided to do some work on the porch instead of in her office. Occupying her favorite porch-swing — the one with the pink floral seat cushion — she had spent the majority of the morning balancing accounts and writing letters to her contacts in Norchester. Nadi had emerged from the mansion some ten minutes ago, claiming he was going to check the soil acidity and moisture now that the snow had melted. 

She hadn’t been able to focus since then. Every time she tried to start a task, her gaze would be pulled back out to the field. She didn’t usually pay attention to Nadi’s work, but she found herself suddenly engaged by the way he would get on his hands and knees and stick his hands straight into the mud. Then, he would pull his hands out and wipe them on his shirt before writing some notes down on a nearby sheet of paper. 

All the while, the fresh Spring sun shone down on his white hair. Today it was pulled back in an unruly ponytail; the strands that still clung to the base of his neck stood out like branches of birchwood against his dark skin. 

And then there were the muscles. He donned a simple cream working tunic that tied with elastic around the waist. When he leaned over to check the soil, she could see the muscles in his back and shoulders through the thin material. She’d never noticed them before.

“Elise.”

She snapped her gaze away from Nadi. Madame stood in the front doorway some feet away. 

Since the incident in the parlor, they had managed…cordiality. Nothing more, nothing less. Elise had not forgotten her resentment, and her knuckles were still bruised, but for now, she was biding her time until she could unravel whatever horrendous scheme Madame had in mind. Until then, she would wait patiently to strike. 

“Bonjour Madame,” she said, shifting the papers in her lap so she could cross her legs in the porch swing. “Ça va?” 

Madame moved from the doorway toward a chair opposite Elise. “Today is the third day since the meeting, and our Agricultural Representative has yet to present any ideas for a possible White Day festival.”

As Madame sat down, Elise let out a sigh. “Her name is Minori, Madame.” 

“Minor details, p’tite,” she said, crossing her legs and looking out to the field. “Without a festival, we risk —“ 

She abruptly cut off. Elise tried to follow her gaze — she was staring at Nadi.

“Is something the matter, Madame?” she asked. 

Madame scowled. “I’ve never seen any Prince of Silk Country playing in the dirt.”

Elise moved her hand delicately to her collarbone in a show of surprise. “Why, Madame! He has kindly asked to help my servants with landscaping this Spring. ’Tis not unheard of for the nobility to take up such hobbies.”

“I suppose you’re right. Did he bring that shirt with him?” Madame asked. “It would be terribly unflattering on anyone else, but it fits him well.” She crossed her arms. “A pity he’s from Silk Country, or I would dare say he’s a rather handsome young man.” 

Fire smoldered in Elise’s belly. “Madame,” she hissed. “C’est impoli. Il est un prince!” She hesitated, then added, “And more so, he is a person. You should not say such things.”

Madame barked out a laugh. “Oh, Elise. T’es un enfant.”

Elise’s shook her head. “Skin color holds no weight in contests for beauty,” she argued, echoing her mother’s words from when she was young — but the next words were her own: “But how one perceives race does aid in assessing one’s capacity for hatred.”

Madame, however, seemed unperturbed by the insult. “Please, ma petite. You cannot tell me truly that you find our Prince Nadi becoming.” 

Elise chewed on the inside of her cheek, remembering the way the sun lit up Nadi’s hair; the way his lips pursed when he was thinking hard; the muscles of his back when he got on his knees to check the soil — 

A long pause. Madame’s lips curled into an eerie smile. 

“Of course I do not,” Elise said quickly, attempting to deter her. “He is my guest — not eye candy.”

Madame leaned back into her chair with a satisfied sigh. “You see? ’Tis simply the way of things.”

Elise had at least seven cutting responses on the tip of her tongue, but they were interrupted by the front door opening.

Jenny, her servant, poked her head out onto the porch. “Excuse me, mistress. Would you care for some tea or cookies?” 

Elise sighed. She supposed this was as good a distraction from the direction of their conversation as any. Jenny, as always, had good timing. Perhaps she should consider giving her a raise. 

“Yes, Jenny. Thank you.”

“Hold the cookies,” Madame ordered, not even looking at Jenny.

Jenny glanced at Elise for approval. Elise sighed. 

“No cookies,” she affirmed, trying desperately to suppress the blush crawling up to her cheeks. 

Jenny nodded, and then disappeared back into the house. 

“There, now,” Madame hummed once she was gone. “N’ayez pas peur. We will restore your figure within the season, p’tite.” 

Elise didn’t respond. She returned her focus to the balance sheets in her lap, ignoring the shame boiling in the pit of her stomach. She would not let Madame hold this over her — not again, not after the years she’d spent undoing her curse. 

Madame didn’t seem to be done with her yet, however. “I asked Cook if we might have broiled fish and asparagus for dinner this evening.” She crossed her legs as if her next words were just an observation of the weather. “I suppose I could ask him to add a dollop of butter to the cod, if you’ll really feel remiss without it.”

Elise snapped. 

“Actually, I won’t be joining you for dinner this evening,” she said, gathering her papers and standing from the porch swing. “I have a social commitment I must attend.”

Madame raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? What social commitments could you possibly have in this tiny town?”

“A ladies’ gathering,” she replied, “with some of my dear friends. Once a season we meet to drink wine and eat cheese and —“ she took a tiny pause. What did girls her age talk about? “— discuss our favorite fashions, and such.” 

Madame peered at her suspiciously. “I was under the impression you didn’t waste your time on such frivolous matters, p’tite.” 

“Time spent schmoozing is never time wasted, Madame,” she countered. “Or wasn’t that what you always taught me?” She set her papers down on a little table nearby and started toward the porch steps.

Madame shook her head, smiling pointedly. “Only when the schmoozing actually benefits your political stance.”

Elise whirled around. “You have much to learn about Oak Tree Town politics, Madame. The girls I’ll be courting tonight carry a great deal of respect in this town.” She smiled thinly. “Perhaps you’d like to come? Iris is quite the fiction writer. You could commission her to whip up a little story to save your fashion enterprise. Imagine the headline: ‘Racist, Cold-Hearted Designer Nurses Small Town to Health.’” A pause so that she could bark a laugh. “Actually, I’m not even sure Iris’s skills could help you there.” 

Madame’s mouth popped open. Elise was fairly sure that if she hadn’t been standing several feet, safely away, she would have gotten slapped. 

But instead of an angry reprimanding, Madame just leaned back in her chair, her gaze sliding out to look where Nadi worked in the field. 

“Perhaps I’ll call your father while you’re at this gathering,” Madame commented too-nonchalantly. “He and I have a great deal to talk about.”

Elise smiled with no mirth. “Do give him my warmest regards.”

And then she flounced into the house, teeth gritted and ready to stuff a hundred cookies down her throat out of spite. 

[eamonrmcivor-blog]

If You Were Born A Girl

~Wherein I discover my brother is not my brother~

When I was in second grade, my mother decided she was either going to buy a share in a horse, or have a third child.  I do remember a few visits to a stable near our house, but the clearer memory is of the fertility clinics.  Hanging out in any doctor’s office is torture enough, but the fertility clinic had a mysterious and unclear purpose (and a distinct lack of toys in the waiting room). When my parents were whisked away by a nurse, were they being taken to some sort of tacky showroom containing high-end fetuses in shiny glass jars?  “We’re having a year-end blowout on the ’92 models, but you might want to wait until the ‘93s come on the lot.  Ten fingers and ten toes come standard, or your money back.”

 My parents eventually went with a ’93 model, with a projected delivery date in mid-September.  Over the summer, my older sister Charlotte and my grandmother teased me relentlessly that the baby was going to be a girl and I was going to be outnumbered.  My mother, while not framing it in a “sisters vs. brother” context, was also pretty sure she was carrying a girl.  As the due date grew closer, we abandoned referring to “the baby” and mainly used the name my parents had picked out. Rosemary.

The day my mother went into labor, Charlotte and I stayed at my grandparents’ house.  We were informed that evening via telephone that my mother had given birth to a boy, Benjamin Joseph McIvor.  I had gotten my little brother after all!  I knew I’d have to wait a few years before he was formed and/or interesting enough to hang out with, but I was happy to have him waiting in the wings. He’d be my sidekick, my student, my smaller version of me who would be grateful for any attention because I was his older, and therefore impossibly cool, brother.  

Ben was a hilarious kid.  There are some home movies where he’s dressed in a red jacket and matching bowtie. Combine that with his cherub face and brown mop top, and he looked like a ventriloquist dummy come to life.  The funny, charming kind; not the stab-you kind. The video was shot during a family party, and he’s darting around like a maniac, but not in a hyper I’ve-had-too-much-sugar way.  He was doing schtick!  He was only three or four, but he knew how to put a whole room of adults under his spell and make them laugh uncontrollably.  

As much as I aspired to be the perfect older brother, I did indulge in that beloved pastime of all siblings: teasing.  When Ben was in kindergarten, Charlotte and I convinced him he was born a beagle that had been shaved and given plastic surgery to look human.  On his eleventh birthday, I bought him a Yu-Gi-Oh DVD, and stashed it inside a purse before putting on wrapping paper. The gag went over like gangbusters with everyone except Ben, who violently threw the purse across the room.

 “If you were born a girl, we would have named you Rosemary,” was a line I resorted to with great frequency.

Once he turned fourteen, Ben grew his hair down to his shoulders.  However, he was a student of Archbishop Ryan High School, and as you might imagine, the Catholics are not too fond of ponytails on men. He met with the disciplinarian on almost a daily basis, and was in danger of being suspended.  I had grown my hair long as soon as I went to college, and advised him to wait until then.  In his desperation, he asked my parents to buy him a short-haired wig he could wear to school.  After Ben made a passionate plea to the disciplinarian that the hair was all he had, a cool head prevailed, and my brother was allowed to keep his long chestnut locks. When he began to style his hair with thick, shiny ribbons, I told him he looked like Gay Thomas Jefferson. It’s not unusual for happy-go-lucky ventriloquist dummy-emulating kids to morph into grumpy, distant teenagers, so when Ben’s personality made a sudden shift to the dark and dour, it didn’t strike anyone in the family as particularly unusual.  A lifelong passion for baseball disappeared overnight, and he converted to Wicca (which, to the further ire of the disciplinarian, involved wearing a variety of silver pendants & trinkets).  He didn’t join any extracurricular activities, explaining he needed the downtime on weekends to play video games and teach himself to speak Russian. Shortly before he left for college at Bloomsburg University, Ben asked us to start addressing him as Venyamina (Venya for short), which he explained was the Russian equivalent of his given name.  Growing up with the frequently butchered name Eamon (my favorite mis-pronunciation is “Almond”), I asked why he’d voluntarily change his name to something so atypical, and frankly, made-up sounding.  He said he was tired of people calling him Ben Franklin or Ben Dover, and wanted to dissociate himself from teasing he’d suffered in grade school.  Yeah, sure, okay  You’re Venya now.  I still called him Ben, mostly out of habit.  Who fucking changes their name after living with it for nineteen years? Trans persons do.

 My mother, father and I all sat around the dining room table, waiting for my little brother to start.  It was January 2013, during Venya’s first winter break.  He was dressed in baggy blue jeans, a dark t-shirt and a hoody. Pretty much the uniform of the McIvor Brothers.  He had checked and double-checked I would be there that night. With hesitation on his lips, and anxiety in his eyes he began to speak—

 But those words are a blur to me now, and any attempt to recreate them would be a disservice to the bravery the littlest McIvor then exhibited.  Confusion.  Always felt different.  Not like the other boys.  Psychological pain.  Feminine. Isolation.  Dysphoria.  Those sentiments, communicated in halting, hushed phrases.  I wasn’t sure what the kid with the long chestnut locks was trying to say.

 “Are you gay?” I asked my little brother.

 “I’m a woman,” my little sister replied.

 If you were born a girl, we would have named you Rosemary.  You were born into the wrong body, so you renamed yourself Venyamina.

 I love you, we love you, no matter what, are you sure, when did you know, wait how do you pronounce your new name again, we love you and support you no matter what, are you going to get lower-body surgery, how long has this been going on, is this why you didn’t go to your senior prom and smoked pot alone in your room instead, Ben I love you, I mean Venya I love you, are you sure?  But we love you no matter what!

 I asked her to go for a walk with me, because there was some apologizing to be done on my end.  The Rosemary line, sure, and the purse gag, yeah.  Pretty standard teasing stuff, but it took on a far more sinister edge with what I knew now.  She accepted my apologies, but did let me know that calling her Gay Thomas Jefferson had been a particularly sharp dagger.  I had made that quip not because I thought being gay was a bad thing, but as a comment on the gulf between her masculine clothing and ribbon-adorned hair.  It had never read to me as particularly feminine, just another Ben quirk.  But it was all she’d had.

Before I met my sister, I had never been outwardly intolerant of any trans persons, but was privately skeptical and unnerved by it.  No matter what you “thought” you were, why would you willingly butcher your body in a way that could never be completely convincing? When Laura Jane Grace of the band Against Me! came out as a trans woman in 2012, I scoffed that she was immediately being referred to as she/her.  I thought to myself, “But you haven’t gotten your sex change yet!  You’re not a real girl!”  

But these were my issues and my projections.  I have body issues.  I turn from mirrors the way a vampire turns from the cross.  I worry about what people think of my appearance.  That thinning hair, that disgusting mole, those stretch marks.  But my shit is not the world’s shit.  My idiotic notions of what a person should look like and my irrational fear that others are constantly sneering at my body are mine alone. “Wait until college to grow your hair long.”  “Why give yourself a hard to pronounce name?”  When I said those things, I was talking to myself, and not my sister.

I don’t know why I was once so attached to strict, obsessive rules for defining what did and did not constitute a man or a woman, but viewing the world solely through my own experience was wrong.  I cannot question anyone’s gender because I am not them.  I’m ashamed it took until someone in my own family coming out as trans for me to realize this truth.  I’m not going to blame cultural conditioning for my ignorance, because I had known gay and trans persons since I was twelve.

The months after Venyamina came out were relatively calm.  She would be home every few weeks for a break or a holiday.  A little more make-up, capris instead of jeans, a higher-pitched voice.  My father embraced his daughter’s new identity with zeal, even if he didn’t completely comprehend the particulars.  He conflated gender with sexuality, and occasionally mixed up being a transvestite with being transsexual.  Still, he read books she recommended and joined a support group for parents with trans children.  For my part, I bought Venyamina some Doom Patrol comics written by Rachel Pollock.

 My mother continued to use the he/him pronouns when discussing my sister, and usually referred to her as “Benya/Venya.”  Sure, we all slipped up with the name and pronoun changes in the early going, but she clung to them far longer than was appropriate.  I tried to drill it into her mind that Ben was gone, and that using those words would only serve to push her daughter away.  Worse yet, she blamed the fertility treatments for “causing” the gender dysphoria.  I told her there was no percentage in thinking about that; all that mattered was that Venyamina was here and that we showed her that we loved her.

Summer was hell.  Once Venyamina was home from college, she barely ever left her room.  She was pushing for hormones and a legal name change right away, and my parents wanted her to wait a little longer.  Even I was skeptical that she was transitioning too quickly.  She’d always had an impulsive nature that led to her fervently embracing things and abandoning them almost as fast.  However, this wasn’t like when she’d become a vegetarian right before a fancy dinner with relatives we hadn’t seen in over a decade. This was her life.

 The big sticking point was her desire to transfer to Warren Wilson College in Asheville, North Carolina.  It had a trans-friendly environment, and the woman Venyamina had started dating in the spring was transferring there, too.  My mom thought it was too far away, my dad wanted Venyamina to properly research and apply to three schools, and I didn’t want my baby sister moving to the South, even nestled in a liberal community.  She was still in the motherfucking South.  Not that I had any say in it; they were all at enough cross purposes without involving the resident court jester.

 The stalemate over Venyamina’s school continued through the summer into the fall. In December 2013, just a few days before my mother was due to pick my sister up from Bloomsburg, my parents received a blistering email from Venyamina.  She had been accepted to Warren Wilson and would be starting there next semester.  She told them she was safe, and not to come look for her.  I was devastated.  This was going to be the first Christmas all five of us would be together since Charlotte got married four years before.  I sent Venyamina frantic emails promising her that she could stay at my apartment and would be under my protection.

She didn’t come home that winter.  She only spoke with my parents about money, and usually via text messages. She didn’t return my phone calls, and declined to meet up with me when I visited Raleigh, North Carolina in February. What the fuck was her problem?  I wasn’t our parents, and I’d shown her nothing but love and acceptance the past year.  Why punish me for our parents’ ignorance?  Again, I’d put my selfish needs and experiences before hers.  She was trying to make a clean break from an existence that had brought her nothing but pain, and all I had cared about was getting the complete collection together for a photo opportunity.  

Over time, though, she and I were honest and understanding with one another and repaired our relationship.  She’s visited home twice since she moved to North Carolina.  I had to break up a fight between Venyamina’s girlfriend and my mom the first time, but the second visit was sans fisticuffs.  That’s progress, I guess?

On the rare occasions Venyamina talks about Ben, she describes how she drowned him in the ocean after she came out.  That makes me sad, because I grew up with Ben.  The toddler who hid my Power Ranger zords during a vacation at the beach. The kid who wrote a fan letter to Emma Watson and told her he was half-velociraptor.  The teenager who starred in my spy parody film, The Ben Identity.  However, I happily lay flowers at my brother’s grave so that my sister can live.

Venyamina is still distant from my parents, but she did call them when she won a social work award at Warren Wilson this past spring.  She’s starting an internship in the fall, and we’re collaborating on a writing project that deals with trans issues.  I moved to Los Angeles a few months ago, so we’re farther away from each other than ever, but somehow, the closest we’ve ever been.