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serene-victory-77 · 1 year

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This entirely spawned from Cassie saying that Kit will have powers we have yet to see in TSC. And thus, the brain worm wiggled into my skull and has held me hostage ever since. I claim no responsibility for this for I am but a vessel for this parasite to work through. But this is my 'prediction' of what Kit's powers will be in The Wicked Powers, though it's more for fun than any actual predictions. I don't expect any of this to be remotely true.

The fae have always had a particular way with words, and Kit has always had a silver tongue.

It wasn’t a trait he was born with but something he honed from years of practice. Each successful lie and twisted truth made his dad’s eyes shine in that rare, particular way. Kit kept it up in hopes of seeing him proud more and more.

In the market, new visitors were susceptible to the young kids who begged for change or food. It was a lucrative gig. The rule was to get there first before they realized the con and pushed the heads that only came up to their thighs away as the veterans did. Kit, like most of the youth who participated, didn’t actually need the things they asked for. But Kit wanted them, and he knew how to get them. Those that said no, shoved Kit aside, or just ignored him, were the subjects of his pickpocketing practice. Early on, Kit learned that no wasn’t a wall, but a door he had to pick through.

But not many people said no to Kit. He was slight Kit for his age, which made people all the more sympathetic, with big blue eyes a little too big for his face. Early, just batting his eyelashes and jutting out his bottom lip was enough to get a few dollars or a tight hand leading him to a sweets stall.

Kit picked up on the pattern quickly. People responded better to those who looked and sounded like them. Those visiting Los Angeles from Mexico were more likely to help the little Hispanic kids running through vendors, and Downworlders would slide an extra portion to someone of their species. Kit couldn’t change his appearance, not without the magic that his dad still refused to teach him, but he had other ways.

Kit was an actor before age ten. A mimic. He overheard heard the sharp tone differences in dialects, how accents mellowed out a voice. With a few practice lines, Kit could replicate exactly how someone said a word. He’d run up to an adult, pleading in a carefully crafted accent to match theirs, and that flash of recognition almost always secured a treat.

Maybe Kit’s dad wanted him to use his skill for more profitable means, but Kit just wanted chocolate-covered popcorn.

Eventually, Kit got too old for begging. He didn’t have the same eternal youth that vampires and fae possessed. His looks worked for other things now, but he needed a new plan for swindling someone out of a few bucks. Luckily, his way with words grew with him.

He’d lie and get away with it. Sometimes Kit pushed it; stole blatantly or bumped someone too hard while reaching. Each time, when someone got in his space, face red from yelling, he’d calmly say he had no idea what they were talking about. Sometimes the effect was immediate and they’d apologize for their outburst and leave him be. Sometimes it took more coaxing. More assurances that he was totally innocent and in their efforts the true thief slipped away. Almost always, they believed him. But leaving, Kit had to assure himself that the film sliding over their eyes while they agreed was just a trick of the light. The steady shine from the lanterns stretching across stalls reflected in the natural sheen. Nothing suspicious.

He didn’t question it. Just assumed he was a good liar and most people were just gullible.

But Kit got older. His dad died, spent time in the Los Angeles Institute, loved and lost, and ended up in England. He learned he was the last descendent of a powerful lineage of fae blood. Things clicked into place.

As he focused on newly recognized powers, his childhood tricks grew in power.

At home, Kit heard a lot of Mandarin. It was whispered between Jem and Tessa over breakfast or behind closed doors. Jem would sit down with Mina and show her delicate and complicated language, slowly enunciating each word for her to babble back to him. Tessa was mama, and Jem was always bàba. Kit was a little embarrassed to feel like he was being left out. Of course, they spoke English around the house, but a small part of Kit felt like maybe they were doing that just for him. So he started to learn on his own. He knew there was a Speak in Tongues rune if he just wanted to know what they were saying. But Kit wanted to know the language. He wanted to be included. For too long he had been barred away from the majority.

Through online sources and slightly threatening reminders on his phone, Kit slowly learned Mandarin. He knew going in that it was a difficult language to learn, especially as a native English speaker. But he didn’t find the tonal shifts to be as hard as everyone claimed them to be. He’d listen to the robotic voice carefully programmed to sound like a human that just grated on Kit’s nerves, work it around in his mouth, and spit it out just right. While everyone was messing up when to emphasize a syllable, Kit was consistently receiving praise for his pronunciation with bright confetti. All the late nights trying to decipher tightly packed lines were all worth it when he got to tell Jem he was learning Mandarin, in Mandarin, and saw his eyes light up.

His ‘gift’ didn’t help with memorization though. And Kit would still bumble mid-sentence trying to remember what the word for ‘eat’ was. Like a toddler with the diction of an adult.

Kit became very good at impressions. Almost too good. His friends from school would beg him to quote movies and television, staring slack-jawed in awe when they were near perfect, and eventually moving on to imitations of other classmates and teachers. Kit had no idea if they suspected a magical reason or if they just thought he had a talent. When they’d ask how he got so good, Kit would just shrug and say he had a lot of free time growing up.

It helped with blending in in Devon too. After a week of keeping his mouth shut when they went to town and religiously watching the news, Kit had the accent down. By the time he was enrolled in school, no one suspected a thing. He explained that he was just homeschooled up until this point, but with his new baby sister, it was better to just give mom a break and go to public school. It was partly true.

He told Haley the truth because he told her almost everything. There was an ease talking to her that he really only felt with Ty that he didn’t like to think about. Because Haley’s friendship didn’t exist so he could hold it up to Ty’s and see where the differences lay. She was good in her own unique way. She also gracefully stayed silent when people asked Kit about growing up, ensuring his privacy.

On top of the improving mimicry, Kit could lie like never before. Which felt like increasing a slider that he previously believed had reached its maximum.

He told himself he’d be honest with Jem and Tessa, to an extent. He may not expose his entire life story to them and there were things he’d keep close to his heart from Los Angeles and Devon alike. But he found himself lying when he came home later than he said after losing track of the time with his friends and Jem was still up asking where he had been.

“We were studying and I passed out on my textbook. I was in such a frenzy to get back that I didn’t even think to text you. I’m sorry.” It came out in a rush and Kit didn’t even think about it, not like he used to do back in the Market. But he saw that familiar mist pass over Jem’s eyes, causing the warm brown to pale. Jem believed him, asked him to do his best to remember next time, and bid him a good night. There were no fading lanterns or flickering stars to blame the brief gleam on. Just the bright overhead Jem kept on so he’d be awake to see Kit get home safe. The churning of guilt kept Kit up all night, unable to close his eyes without seeing the effect he had with just his words. Never had Kit regretted lying before, and yet the shame sat on his shoulder until the morning. He wasn’t taught to apologize but he pulled Jem aside as soon as he could.

There was a brief flash of annoyance, but Kit’s visible guilty body language caused it to slide from Jem’s face. He rested his hand on Kit’s shoulder and assured him that he was forgiven as it wasn’t on purpose. It still left a thick, unpleasant feeling in his throat but he let Jem lead him into the kitchen to explain it all to Tessa too.

Kit never wanted it to happen again, at least not unintentionally. He didn’t want to give Tessa and Jem a reason to not trust anything he says. So he practiced. It was a difficult power to master as he couldn't tell when it really worked unless he was staring directly at someone, which was suspicious. But he tried telling white lies to people, passing strangers he’ll probably not see again. Sometimes their eyes shone and they’d agree, sometimes they’d just shrug and accept. Toeing his way blindingly through an aspect of himself that he should know, he should have always known, he finally figured things out.

He can’t lie bluntly about obvious things. Evident by the one time he told someone about the awful storm outside and they looked at him like he was on drugs with the clear, blue sky behind him. It is a slow and intentional process, feeding someone lies until they believe them. Little things are easier. Kit can lie about the date, about not having the exact change, or needing a little extra time on an assignment. Other times it’s like erosion. Repetition to finally get the glitter of success. Kit’s words are thick and warm like honey, light as smoke; utterly compelling. It isn’t mind control thankfully, Kit doesn’t know if his conscience would be able to handle power like that. Or even scarier, if he’d easily slip into the role of true control. He can’t make anyone do something they don’t want to. But he can shift someone’s perceptions. Change the reality.

Kit doesn't know exactly what he’ll do as he slowly got better and better, but something in the back of his mind that sounds a little too much like his dad tells him that anything he can use to be above the rest needs to be held tightly.

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serene-victory-77 · 1 year

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I might be the only person who thinks this, but I don't care. It's been eating me alive.

I think Jace and Kit look alike but the similarities stop at like, general familial resemblance. Especially when Kit actually grows up. Like they share the same nose and furrow of their brows and strangely enough their laugh. But that's where it ends. I've always imagined Jace as like a rugged handsome: with a strong jaw, heavy brow, wide shoulders, and mostly upper body mass (but we all this man does not skip leg day, we've seen him jump). You know like, very MASCULINE beauty.

But Kit has always been this soft blend of feminine and masculine in my head. Because Herondales are notoriously handsome/gorgeous in a powerful way but it mixes with the general androgenous, ethereal beauty of the fae to make something just right between the binary where people look at him and have to think. Like he has high cheekbones and full lips to accompany his sharp jawline and dark eyebrows. And he's definitely leaner than Jace is, a body made for running and slipping between enemies rather than facing them head-on.

And maybe I like the idea of Kit being a little defensive as everyone loves to compare him to Jace so when he gets all prickly with Ty about why he finds him attractive, Ty just lists a dozens ways that he and Jace don't look alike (because of course out of anyone, Ty would notice those things) and Kit just sits there like :o

#tmi #tda #shadowhunters #kit herondale #jace herondale #ty blackthorn #kit x ty #I come back to this post whenever I need to remember I'm not the only one that loves beautiful androgynous Kit

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serene-victory-77 · 1 year

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In defense of Cardan

Rereading The Cruel Prince is fascinating, because there was such an effort made to show Cardan as “cruel” in the beginning, and he does do some nasty things. For instance, I don’t think we ever learn if he had a good reason for his random cruel act of tearing the wing of a faerie who didn’t bow to him. That moment has always bothered me and I don’t have an explanation for it.

And yet, so many of his interactions with Jude can be seen through a different light on a reread after we know his character better. Once we know he does not relish violence and expends a lot of energy avoiding his own humiliation.

Take the everapple incident during astronomy lessons.

Valerian and Nicasia certainly wanted to hurt Jude, and Locke was already playing his own twisted game. But knowing what we learn later about Cardan, all his possibly cruel actions go slant and are arguably a kind of protection, the only kind he can offer Jude while being subtle about it.

First, Nicasia starts it - she steals Jude’s notebook and slaps her across the face.

Cardan looks over, and I can tell from his expression that she has failed to please him.

I’m not sure if Nicasia was trying to please Cardan. It may have been for her own amusement, not his. But he’s already wary and not thrilled about what’s going to happen.

Then Valerian shoves the faerie apple into Jude’s mouth. Nicasia steals her salt, the antidote, before she can reach for it. Valerian shoves the apple back in her mouth, choking her, and Jude begins to black out from lack of air. Someone yells “Do something!” and it’s unclear who - this was probably not Cardan, because it doesn’t seem like his method of intervening. Maybe it was Locke, maybe one of the teachers or bystanders. And then…

Abruptly, Valerian is kicked off me. I roll onto my side, coughing. Cardan is looming there. Tears and snot are running down my face, but all I can do is lie in the dirt and spit out pieces of sweet, fleshy pulp. I have no idea why I am crying. “Enough,” Cardan says. He has an odd, wild expression on his face, and a muscle is jumping in his jaw. I start to laugh. Valerian looks mutinous. “Ruin my fun, will you?” For a moment, I think they’re going to fight, although I cannot think why. Then I see what Cardan’s got in his hand. The salt from my basket. The antidote. (Why did I want that? I wonder.) He tosses it up into the air with a laugh, and I watch it scatter with the wind. Then he looks at Valerian, mouth curling. “What’s wrong with you, Valerian? If she dies, your little prank is over before it begins.”

So Cardan is the one who intervenes to save Jude’s life before Valerian can choke her to death. He’s freaked out, he doesn’t want this, and it’s possible his friends basically know that and are messing with him just as much by messing with Jude.

He has also gotten his hands on Jude’s salt. Now, why would he have bothered to pick up her salt? It was inside her basket, which Nicasia had, and that’s not the most direct path to an imminently choking Jude. I think he was intending to get her the antidote.

Except then he was caught out in an awkward position where, for just a moment, it looked like he might be helping her - he’s even just pulled Valerian off her. He can’t show that weakness to any of the court teens, least of all his friends. So he improvises and scatters the salt, making it look like he’s part of Valerian’s game. This sucks for Jude, who needed that salt, but it’s also probably the best move to avoid a target on himself and a worse target on Jude, who he’s now reframing as a game, a plaything, not something to completely destroy. While that is still dehumanizing and demoralizing, it is still ultimately safer to downgrade her torment to a fun joke for them, not something that should end in physical harm. He is deescalating a situation he can’t entirely defuse.

This intentional choice of his, one he hates having to make, is reinforced by the difference between his words and his expression.

“Prince Cardan?” Noggle says. “She ought to be taken home.” “Everyone is so dull today,” Cardan says, but he doesn’t sound as if he’s bored. He sounds as if he’s barely keeping his temper in check.

He’s trying to maintain the attitude that this is silly, this is no big deal, but he’s simmering with anger at this assault on Jude, and possibly at the way he must carefully strike this tone so that his friends don’t escalate, or worse, turn on him too. It would be bad for him in general if they turned on him, but it would also leave him with no power to put a stop to how they’re treating Jude.

Nicasia smiles, holding up the golden thing she has in her hand. The filthy, mashed remains of the apple. “Come lick my hands clean. You don’t mind, do you? But you have to do it on your knees.” Gasping and tittering spread through our classmates like a breeze. They want me to do it. I want to make them happy. I want everyone to be as happy as I am. And I do want another taste of the fruit. I begin to crawl toward Nicasia. “No,” Cardan says, stepping in front of me, his voice ringing and a little unsteady. The others back off, giving him room. He toes off his soft leather shoe and puts one pale foot directly in front of me. “Jude will come here and kiss my foot. She said she wanted to kiss us. And I am her prince, after all.” I laugh again. Honestly, I don’t know why I laughed so infrequently before. Everything is marvelous and ridiculous. Looking up at Cardan, though, something strikes me as wrong. His eyes are glittering with fury and desire and maybe even shame. A moment later, he blinks, and it’s just his usual chilly arrogance.

Once again, he has saved her from the everapple. Nicasia was not just going to humiliate her, she was also going to drug her more. Cardan had to stop her.

But he can’t just play the hero here. So he suggests that Jude, who has also just said she would be happy to kiss any of them, kiss his foot. It’s humiliating, sure, but it’s also innocuous compared to Nicasia’s intentions, and kissing his foot will not further drug her.

He has to keep playing this game to get them both out of this as cleanly as possible. He’s still struggling to keep his fury under wraps, though, and it slips through when Jude looks at him.

And then Locke becomes an active player in the scene.

“Well? Be quick about it,” he says impatiently. “Kiss my foot and tell me how great I am. Tell me how much you admire me.” “Enough,” Lock says sharply to Cardan. He’s got his hands on my shoulders and is pulling me roughly to my feet. “I’m taking her home.” “Are you, now?” Cardan asks him, eyebrows raised. “Interesting timing. You like the savor of a little humiliation, just not too much?” “I hate it when you get like this,” Locke says under his breath.

This exchange is harder to parse. In the moment, it does look like Locke is the only good guy, who is sweeping in to save Jude from Cardan and Nicasia and Valerian. This is how Locke wants it to look, and it is how Jude interprets things immediately after.

But knowing what we learn later about Locke’s character and his intensions, and noting how quietly intrigued he was by this incident up until this moment, it seems that Locke has decided to chime in to play the hero on purpose - he’s seen his in with Jude, and that is acting like he’s on her side and getting her out of this situation.

Cardan knows all about Locke’s love of “story” and watching things play out, which is why he makes a jab at him that Locke seems to think some humiliation is fine, at least. He’s asking where the line is for Locke, who is acting morally superior when Cardan knows that’s hypocritical. On a first read, it seems that Locke is saying he hates when Cardan gets into a mood to humiliate people. But on rereads, it’s more likely he’s annoyed that Cardan won’t fully surrender himself to the unfolding story in front of them, or allow Locke to move it forward unhindered.

Now, I’m going to take a moment to wildly speculate about a couple things. First, Valerian probably could have come up with this idea and gotten his hands on an apple himself - it’s not like they’re rare, and they’re known to be dangerous for humans. But why now? He’s not that bright - if he wanted to do this to Jude, why hadn’t he done it before? Is it possible that Locke suggested it and/or handed him the apple? Secondly, Lock is the worst, and I think it’s entirely possible that he didn’t only want to play hero by walking Jude home. If he got to have a little “fun” with her on the way home and manipulate her into thinking it was consensual, well, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind that either. We know he sucks. He’s awful. This doesn’t feel like a stretch to me. Jude was not guaranteed to be safe alone with Locke while nearly naked and drugged.

I think Cardan knew or guessed some of that too.

Cardan pulls a pin from his coat, a glittering, filigree thing in the shape of an acorn with an oak leaf behind it. For a delirious moment, I think he’s going to give it to Locke in exchange for leaving me there. That seems impossible, even to my wild mind. Then Cardan takes hold of my hand, which seems even less possible. His fingers are overwarm against my skin. He stabs the point of his pin into my thumb. “Ow,” I say, pulling away from him and putting the injured digit into my mouth. My own blood is metallic against my tongue. “Have a nice walk home,” he tells me. […] I suck on my injured thumb, feeling odd. My head is still swimming, but not like it was. Something’s wrong. A moment later, I realize what. There’s salt in my human blood.

This, to me, feels like Cardan’s most risky move. He might have given himself away to everyone, but he almost certainly did to Locke. While Locke probably already knew how Cardan felt, so he wasn’t revealing anything wholly secret, confirming his feelings could also be dangerous.

He might have been able to pass it off as a quick moment of cruel harm toward Jude, or even managed to prick her finger without anyone else noticing.

But crucially, he ensured that she did not walk off alone with Locke while not in her right mind. He did it. He got them out of that situation without revealing any of his feelings (well, he tried - probably only Locke noticed) and made sure Jude, whose human blood he knew would have salt she needed, received the antidote to the everapple’s effects.

Cardan did make Jude’s life harder throughout their teen years, but I really don’t think he ever intended real harm to come to her. He was a bully, but not a complete villain. And once he had a certain reputation, he had to maintain it and use it, just to navigate through sticky situations when his friends decided to commit villainous acts themselves.

I could continue on about all the other indications that he has helped or defended humans, but I’ll leave that for another day.

#This scene always made me uncomfortable so I haven't reread it #And even though I knew about the whole 'he got her to lick her blood for the salt as protection' thing #I was never able to totally reframe and reapply it to what we know about Cardan #So this was actually pretty great! Of course Cardan isn't exactly innocent at any point #But it's nice to see how he wasn't as complacent as I thought he was in my first readthrough #Tfota #Tcp #cardan greenbriar

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serene-victory-77 · 1 year

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Here’s a story about changelings:

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch.

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings.

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child.

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.

They all live happily ever after.

Here’s another story:

Keep reading

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serene-victory-77 · 2 years

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serene-victory-77 · 2 years

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the closet can be a freeing as it is restricting

Relationship: Kit Herondale x Ty Blackthorn; Kit Herondale & Livvy Blackthorn

Word Count: 7.3k+

Read on Ao3

Content Warnings: references to past bullying with homophobic language, a brief panic attack, and vague references to an adult concert goer flirting with Dru even though she's fifteen

Summary: You know how there are things you know about yourself in the present day and you look back at your past and think: shit I was always this way, wasn't I? Passing through forests of clothes while shopping with his mom, subtly brushing his fingers along the array of fabrics, he feels that all too familiar tug deep within his chest that's had years of practice trying to suppress. He knows its name but never dares utter it unless he's the only one awake in a darkened house, or else it might come alive and swallow him whole.

Longing.

Kit stares at the open maw of Livvy’s closet, his angle stretching the sides to look like it’s raring to swallow him whole.

It matches the fear that wrapped a cold, iron vice around his stomach. Her clothes hang as needle-like teeth; used outfits droop out of the hamper like a wagging tongue; the swirling night sky backdrop Julian painted many years ago acting as the tunnel to the beast’s stomach. Kit’s heart hammers in his chest, palms sweat against the warm, shag rug, but he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t make a sound. Any sign of his fear could cause the animal to pounce or draw Livvy’s attention to his situation

He doesn’t know which would be worse.

Livvy is applying a second coat to her nails– pistachio–and humming along to whatever song scratches through the shitty speakers she refuses to replace. The beat is nice: pulsing through the floor and up into Kit’s skin like it’s trying to manually slow down his heart.

They lapsed into silence almost as soon as Ty and Dru left for their concert, but Kit didn’t overthink it as Livvy’s closet took over all empty space in his mind. It’s been almost two hours. Kit’s been staring at Livvy’s clothes, not speaking, for almost two hours. She probably thinks Kit’s just zoned out again, drifting somewhere of his own invention while she pads around the room to attempt the daily crossword that she and Ty make an unusual competition of, work through another line of code for her summer project, and eventually settle down to do her nails.

Kit’s blood echoes in his ears. The beast can definitely smell his distress. He’s easy prey.

“Hey Kit, do you want me to do your nails?”

His eyes slide away from the sweaters shoved against the furthest wall–because the September air is still clinging to the heat of July like a petulant child–to look at Livvy. What can Kit say that won’t give everything away? He’s said yes to her painting his nails before. They’d been decked in black, maroon, forest green, and once a sparkly purple that made Mina giggle when he wiggled his fingers in the light. There’s nothing conspicuous about Livvy painting his nails; it’s normal.

But Kit knows that she’ll take his hand and feel his rocketing pulse. She’ll listen to the way his blood sings in his veins, ecstasy at the acquisition but begging Kit to just finally take the plunge. She’ll take one, long look at him–like she always does because her blue-green eyes somehow always see straight through Kit like he’s nothing more than tissue paper–and just know.

Kit doesn’t even know what it all means quite yet; how will he react when Livvy connects all the dots before he does?

“Sure,” Kit replies. Because if Kit is good at anything, it’s ignoring the panic signals flashing red and blaring loud in his own body.

Putting his back to the closet makes his skin crawl, but he takes a deep breath and tries to reel back the line of dread he’s been unspooling for the past few hours back into something he can brush off as his stupid, sensitive response system after hearing a door slam from two houses down.

“I just got this shade that I think with match you perfectly.” She holds up the bottle. It’s the color of peach ice cream Ty always orders whenever they inevitably walk far enough down the beach to hit the pier. “And it’s just soft enough that it won’t draw a lot of attention.”

Kit’s grateful because they do have classes on Monday and the last thing he needs is everyone seeing him starting to paint his nails after the entire debacle of Kit’s coming out. Though Livvy’s been painting his nails long before the entire school found out about Kit’s huge, gay crush on Ty, it’s not like anyone would ask about it before shoving him into the lockers and calling him a fairy.

“Whatever you say,” Kit pushes out, pressing his hands against the cool wood of Livvy’s desk to mask their shaking. She doesn’t blink, just slides a tissue beneath his fingers and gets to work.

Whenever Livvy does Kit’s nails, she doesn’t stop at just applying a color. She always pushes back his cuticles and cuts away the excess, dead skin, puts two layers of the agreed-upon shade so it’s even and vibrant before applying a clear top coat, and dabs a drop of oil on each cuticle to keep it moisturized. Nothing about it makes Kit’s insides squirm as it’s the exact process she does for herself, Dru, and even Ty every so often–though Ty prefers to get just clear polish and it never lasts long with how often he thrusts his hands into dark, rocky crevices or the ocean.

But, even if Livvy didn’t do it exactly the same for everyone, Kit knows he wouldn’t shy away from the treatment because there’s a small part of his chest that rolls over giddily at being pampered. He glances back at Livvy’s closet, looking more foreboding without a clear line of sight.

The clothes call to him. They beckon with silky smooth fingers and croon with cotton soft voices. All Kit wants to do is block them out; think about anything else than how wonderful they must feel against the skin. He’s done it for years, why is it so much harder now?

Maybe it’s because he’s not under the same pressure to act and look a certain way. Maybe it’s because he now has a little sister who begs to braid his hair and clip childish butterfly and flower barrettes without structural intention. Maybe it’s because he saw Julian painting his own nails in hopes of preventing him from biting them to irritated nubs and could only think, wait boys are allowed to do that?

A sudden resolve settles over his shoulders, though he has no idea where it came from. It drapes across his skin, soothing its rapid-fire buzzing and settling his heart until it thumps harshly but evenly. The words fly out without giving Kit a chance to even think of snagging them back inside.

“Livvy, do you remember that dress you wore to school last week?” He asks, “the green one with puffed sleeves?

Because there is one thing in there that’s acting as Kit’s siren song. He saw it the moment they retreated to the twins’ room to wait out the concert of bands neither of them listen to but hear coming through Ty’s headphones or behind Dru’s bedroom door. It was like everything else in the room has been drained of color, the only object keeping its saturation was the beautiful sage green dress hanging just to the right of the center.

Kit walked into school, spotted her and Ty against the section of wall they claim each and every morning, and actually stopped in his tracks. It reached about mid-thigh, gathered around her waist, and showed off a large expanse of her chest. He couldn’t look away, too mesmerized by the way the fabric bounced animatedly as she talked with her hands.

There was no doubt he looked like a creep, stopping the flow of student traffic to just watch his best friend from several feet away. Eventually, she spotted him and waved, forcing Kit to snap back into himself and pretend like he didn’t just have an entire crisis soundtracked by sneakers squeaking against linoleum and students lamenting about calculus homework.

It’s not like Kit was the victim of a flood of attraction, that ship got its hull smashed when they shared a tight-lipped kiss at fifteen and Livvy fully grimaced afterward. No, Kit was jealous. He wanted that dress. He wanted to wear that dress.

“I do remember it, yes,” she replies; Kit pretends to not hear the snark in her tone, she doesn’t know why Kit is asking.

“Is there any way,” Kit swallows heavily, all his internal organs shoving their way into his throat, “I could try it on?”

He doesn’t immediately see Livvy’s reaction as he’s closed his eyes as tightly as they could go, bracing for her reaction. When she doesn’t say anything at all, he cracks one open slowly. She’s staring at him, hand frozen where it was rubbing in the last bits of oil around his thumb’s nail, not an ounce of judgment on her face. Actually, she’s beaming.

“Absolutely!” She cries, jumping up from her chair to rifle through the rainbow of fabrics to find the dress. Kit doesn’t point out that she passed over it twice because that would mean he was hyper-aware of its position and he doesn’t know if he can admit to that just yet.

He flaps his hands as he comes up behind her, taking the hanger when she thrusts it in his direction. She smiles again, makes a quick get-to-it gesture, and plops down onto her bed, criss-cross and facing away.

For a moment, all Kit can do is stare. He can’t even touch it yet, instead keeping his grip firmly on the plastic hanger so its rough edges dig into his palms. All the years of longing narrow down into Kit’s chest, pinpoint accuracy straight through his diaphragm that he struggles to breathe. He’s seven again, watching a pair of young girls skip by his father’s stall with matching floral skirts and Hello Kitty band-aids on their knees. He’s ten, trying to not seem like he’s following a woman just so he can get a prolonged view of the way her cropped tanktop hugs her ribs and stretches as she walks. He’s sixteen, with his comforter over his head like a force field as he watches fashion week runways on his phone in the middle of the night.

He’s wanted this for so long, aching for a chance to even entertain the thought of dressing like them. And Livvy just enthusiastically thrusted it into his arms because all Kit did was ask.

His fingers drag down the line of the hanger to tease against the tops of the sleeves. Despite it being nothing but a polyester and cotton mix, it feels electric. Alive. Only for a beat does he entertain the thought of just throwing it over his t-shirt and jeans; make it all for a quick joke to save his dignity at the expense of shoving it all down so far it’ll never see the light of say again. He was just outed to the entire school in one of the most violating and cruel ways, why is setting himself up for another beating? Will his heart be able to handle it?

That train of thought doesn’t last long in the presence of finding how exactly how the skirt will feel against the apex of his thighs.

It pulls around his chest but droops at his hips. The dress is clearly not made for his frame. But Kit has it on his body, adjusting the neckline so it sits centered on his chest and smoothing out any wrinkles he sees in the waist. Elation roars in his veins. He holds off from looking at himself for as long as he can–equally too afraid of hating how it looks and loving it so much he’ll never be able to take it off–but he takes a deep breath and rips off the ban-aid by stepping back and getting a full view in the mirror Livvy tacked to the inside of the door.

Oh, he looks nice. He looks really nice. The sleeves come down to just above his elbows, minimizing his biceps in a way he didn’t even know he craved. Where the bodice would normally have cleavage, it just holds the flat plane of Kit’s chest, but can’t bring himself to care. A soft laugh bubbles up his throat as she swings the hemline around his legs; it feels even better than he dreamed.

Livvy turns around at Kit’s joy and she just stares. Her hands come up to cover her mouth like she’s praying, doing nothing to block the giant smile that forms. She takes in everything, eyes darting along Kit’s body in a way that has him flushing but doesn’t diminish the pure joy acting as a barrier against everything.

Then she shrieks.

Compliments gush out of her like a waterfall, soaking Kit in warmth. “Oh my god, Kit you look so good! This color does amazing things with your skin. I know it’s a little longer due to our height difference but oh, just imagine how you’d look if I had something in your size!”

She pauses, her hands gripping Kit’s exposed clavicle. “How do you feel?”

Kit has no idea if he can put it into words. Like finally listening to a voice that’s been echoing in the back of his mind for ages. Like scratching an itch that he’s housed beneath his skin since before he could remember. It feels like freedom.

“Good,” is what he settles on, everything else feeling too big to make it up his throat, “I feel good.”

Livvy’s face falls into something more serious, gentle, but serious. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Talk about?” Somehow Kit feels like they aren’t thinking the same thing.

“Like, do you still want to be called Kit?”

All the warmth gets sucked out of Kit’s body, leaving him cold and shaking. Livvy trudges on without noticing. “Because you know, it’s fine if you don’t want to be Kit anymore. And you know that I’ll love you no matter what. I mean, you about Diana–”

“I’m not trans,” Kit cuts in. He backs up, allowing the closest monster to breathe heavily against his back. “I’m not a girl,” he whispers. He knows he shouldn’t have spat it out like it was an insult, but in the right context, it could be.

It’s scary, coming out as queer and then telling everyone you like girls’ clothes. He knows what everyone’s reaction will be. Oh, so he’s one of those gays. So we know who the girl in the relationship is. Just wait, in a few years, he’ll be getting everyone to call him she. Kit’s fingers dig into his arms, the sleeves doing nothing to cushion his skin from the pain. It’s no use trying to explain to everyone who questions what makes Kit Kit. They’ll never understand that his appreciation is aesthetically based, that he’s still a boy even if pairs his jeans with heeled boots or his t-shirt with a skirt. He’s already had people come up to him in the halls with insults veiled as questions about being bisexual. Do you even have a type or is just anyone who will give you attention? How will you keep a relationship if you have that bisexual urge to cheat? Does this mean you’ll still take it up the ass if you have a girlfriend? They ring in Kit’s ears, piling on top of each other until they’re nothing but white noise that threatens to make his eardrums burst.

He knows he’s hyperventilating, can feel his lungs burning, his heart pounding against his ribs, and his vision darkening around the edges, but’s helpless to stop it. Kit wants Ty. Who clings him to so tight that if Kit shattered into a million little pieces he’ll stay put together. Who mutters reassurances right into Kit’s ears even when Kit can’t clearly hear them. Who lays with Kit afterward–when he's still shaking but at least back in his own head–and goes through the known evolutionary history of dolphins.

But having Ty comforting him would mean Ty would be here, seeing Kit in a dress. And that only makes Kit’s panic worse.

There’s a hand rubbing a firm circle against his exposed spine and a voice speaking directly into his scalp. It’s not a lot, but it’s the tether Kit needed to drag himself back to reality.

The room comes back into focus, tears Kit didn’t realize he was shedding clouding his vision. Livvy has pulled him into her chest, curling over his head so his forehead rests against her collarbone. Slowly, her words sharpen.

“It’s okay Kit, I’m sorry I said anything. You’re okay, everything is okay. I promise you’re safe. Nothing’s here to hurt you.”

It’s so similar to what she whispers to Ty when he’s on the verge of a meltdown when Kit has to just watch from a distance as they curl into each other like two parentheses, protecting the vulnerability Ty shows by fisting his hands in his hair and repeating words under his breath.

It’s good, and soothing in an almost mindless way that helps piece Kit’s brain into a functional organ. When his heartbeat calms down and his lungs are able to take in a gulp of air without protesting violently, he pushes himself back again.

Livvy just watches him, waiting for Kit to say the first thing but daring him to brush it off with an I’m fine.

“Sorry,” he says instead, which is not a better line but at least he’s admitting he’s not okay.

“No, Kit, I’m sorry,” she presses, “I shouldn’t have assumed. Especially if you were working through something like your gender. It’s a lot to admit.”

“I just want to wear whatever I want. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Livvy agrees. The tension that’s coiled tight in Kit’s chest loosens somewhat. Though he shouldn’t be so surprised Livvy is as accepting as she is, with over half of her family identifying as queer in some fashion, including herself. But it’s nice to be taken at face value. Hearing what Kit says about himself and acknowledging it as the simple truth.

“I do have a question though,” she says.

Kit isn’t proud of how his shoulders draw up. “What?”

“You look kind of a right mess.” She tucks a lock of hair back behind Kit’s ear. “So I was wondering if you’ve considered makeup when thinking about your new look and if I’d be able to do it for you.”

Kit lets out a fragmented breath. That’s a much easier question to answer.

“I have. And you can. Just nothing too–” He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Livvy is dragging him back to the desk. With the briefest of checks that Kit’s okay, she bursts out of the room and down the hall leaving Kit alone with his thoughts as he fingers the hemline between his forefingers and thumb. He’ll never get how people claim they can see no similarities between Livvy and Ty after finding out they're twins. Sure, they’re not identical but Kit can see the shared traits easily. They both laugh with eyes squinted and heads thrown back, they both cock their heads when confused, and they both are unrestrained balls of energy when excited.

Livvy’s considerably more collected when coming back into the room, a good chunk of her makeup collection cradled in her arms. Though there’s less care when she just dumps it all across her desk. He blinks at all the palettes and applicators, praying that the pencil he saw Dru and Ty use to coat their under eyes black will go nowhere near his waterline.

“Alright,” Livvy huffs, falling back into Ty’s chair she borrowed from his desk, “is there anything that you’ve just been dying to try?”

Kit thinks back to Halloween a few years back. They had decided to go as something fantasy themed and all together they looked like they were heading to a Renn Faire rather than trick-or-treating. Livvy had gone a knight, her fencing saber acting as her trusty sword, though everyone kept assuming she was Joan of Arc. Ty went as a necromancer, which Kit believes was just an excuse for him to wear a heavy, black cloak the entire night and spend three days creating a detailed Necronomicon prop with Dru. And Kit was a faerie. The costume itself wasn’t terribly complex, just a linen shirt and pants combo that he spruced with tying his hair back in a loose updo that he let Mina decorate with beads and leaf decals, but Tessa had helped him apply mascara and some eyeliner to give him a more ethereal appearance. Kit couldn’t go by a mirror or window without sneaking a quick glance at his reflection all night.

“I really like how mascara looks and I don’t mind how chapstick feels, so, lip gloss?”

With all the shame-filled late-night searches Kit’s done to pin outfits to a private Pinterest board, he never dived too deep into the complex world of makeup. Everything he knows is simply by osmosis of having a girl best friend four years running.

“I can do mascara and lipgloss, but let me just help reduce some of this puffiness first.” She pulls out a green device that looks like a rolling pin attached to a long handle. Her hand against Kit’s shoulder keeps him from flinching too far back but once it hits below his eyes, he’s relaxing again. It’s cool and it feels like it’s dragging the heat that had pooled up and away.

It’s just how when Livvy does his nails: following a set set of steps to make sure it looks as good as possible. They don’t talk much as she works, the only breaks in silence are her answering the quiet questions Kit has about brands and techniques. Oddly enough, it feels like bonding. He shares so much with Ty: being queer men, being neurodivergent, and recently romantic interest.

Maybe this can be the thing they share.

“If I may ask, what draws you to feminine things?” Livvy requests, bringing a blond pencil up to his eyebrows. “If there even is a reason,” she tacks on.

Kit shrugs as lightly as he can without jostling his face too much. “I can’t say it’s much different than what draws you to it. Just wanting to feel pretty, I guess.”

“Well, good thing you were always partly there, pretty boy.” Kit flushes despite her teasing tone.

She instructs him to look up as she applies the mascara and luckily Kit is already familiar with the process; Tessa got to deal with all of Kit’s flinching and eyelids fluttering. “Have you always felt this way?”

“I think so?” Kit questions, thinking back on his childhood. Sure, a lot of his interest could have been chalked up to budding pre-pubescent attraction–which is probably what saved him from being questioned too heavily by his biological dad–but even then Kit knew something about looking at women’s clothes felt different than him wanting to kiss a girl. “But it’s the stereotypical story: boy likes girly things, society calls him fag, so he just repressed it until he forgets about it eating him from the inside out.”

It’s almost enough to make him laugh. He sure did turn out to be pretty gay without putting on makeup.

Livvy’s hand pauses just for a moment before continuing. “Well, I appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me.”

“I appreciate you being so cool with it,” Kit responds.

She leans back, mascara brush swinging dangerously close to her cheek, lips pursed.

“We don’t have to worry too much about blush right now because the general redness of your cheeks is enough.” Kit scoffs. “But I will admit everything would look so much better if I had a foundation shade in your color. You’re lucky Emma left one of her brow pencils here and it’s close enough of a match to get by. Maybe when we go to get you some clothes we can swing by Sephora and pick a few things out.”

“Livvy,” Kit warns but she’s already turned to look at her lip gloss selection. He doesn’t know if he can do something like that yet. Trying on his friend’s dress in the privacy of her bedroom is very different from taking something into the changing room at a public store.

“Oh, It’ll be so fun! I love shopping with Emma and Christina, we make a whole day of it. Now I know the first time will probably be just you and me but it can still be a blast. I’m also pretty much an expert, so you’ll need me to help pick out things that flatter your body type.”

Kit isn’t even sure what his body type is. A disproportionate leg-to-torso ratio accompanied by an extra layer of fat around his stomach? Do they get that specific? Livvy holds up a few tubes of lip gloss, checking their color against the flush in Kit’s skin.

“It’s not that it won’t be fun. I just don’t think I’m ready to go the whole nine yards yet. Baby steps, yeah? Let’s just get a few feet first.”

Livvy sighs but Kit knows his barest hint at acceptance will be enough for her to have a plan put together when he officially says yes. Finally, she settles on a brand and he’s saved from shoving his foot in his mouth by a sticky layer of artificial strawberry flavoring. He smacks his lips when instructed, silently pleased with the soft pop they supply.

Wordlessly, Livvy holds up a handheld mirror for Kit to inspect her work, looking far too smug. For the second time today, he’s left speechless. She was right about not needing any blush as his cheeks are already flushed from his brief panic attack–and it’s not like he’s going out the look–but everything Livvy touched looks good. It’s still his face, but somehow more. The mascara makes his eyelashes look longer and fuller, framing his eyes in a distractingly familiar way. She filled in his eyebrows to make them darker and more defined and the lipgloss glistens along his cupid’s bow as he turns his head.

Kit definitely looks pretty. But all with all the fizzing that’s taken up residence in his stomach, heavy stones quickly dispel it all.

He’s never been blind to how he looks. Growing into his features in his late teens meant growing into something he could only describe as androgynous. People have always called him a delicate balance of handsome and beautiful. High cheekbones and full lips with a strong jawline and broad shoulders. It was when he started to grow his hair past his ears that people started to do double-takes for more reasons than interest. Passing them in public, Kit could always tell what they were thinking: was that a boy or a girl? He can’t help but think about Ty.

“What’s going on?” She whispers, resting her folded forearms on his shoulder.

Kit snaps the mirror closed and throws it back on the desk, unable to look anymore. “Ty’s gay.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m pretty aware,” Livvy chuckles, “you should have seen how many times he watched 10 Things I Hate About You just for Heath Ledger.”

“So what if I start doing this,” Kit makes a broad gesture to his face and clothes, “and he starts to lose interest.”

Livvy lets out a sympathetic sound. “Oh, Kit.”

“I know it won’t be an everyday thing. I still like masculine styles! I just want to be free to wear the stuff everyone associates with girls. But what if Ty can’t bring himself to kiss me when I have lipstick on.” Kit sniffs. “What if this tears us apart?”

He can feel his throat closing up and tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, but Livvy is already there with a tissue before any can spill again.

“First, please don’t cry as I just applied that mascara and it will run like a bitch. Two, you know Ty doesn’t care about stuff like that.” She holds onto his elbows as he collects himself, then trails her hands down his forearms to link their fingers together. “Ty likes you however you present yourself.”

“There are tons of gay guys who are masc-for-masc and all that shit.”

“Well Ty isn’t one of those guys,” she assures. Her thumb comes up to swipe at a tear that slipped out. “Do you like it?”

“It kinda makes me look like a girl.”

“But do you like it?”

Kit hesitates, thinking back to how his body immediately reacted to putting on the dress, seeing his makeup in the mirror. “Yes. I really like it.”

“Then that’s all Ty will care about.”

He can only nod, pressure building behind his eyes with renewed force. It takes a lot of effort to not cry, though the remaining shreds of his dignity and Livvy’s hard work being on the line are excellent motivators. When Kit finally nods, waving for Livvy to step back, he feels a little better.

“I’m okay,” he promises, “sorry about nearly crying again.”

“Babe, for all the times I know you’ve choked back tears. Letting yourself cry twice in one day might actually be good for you.”

Kit laughs and all the fear and anxiety in his chest finally dissipates. It reminds Kit of the scene in most teenage coming-of-age stories. Where the main character inevitably goes to their wiser, older sibling, usually back for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and pours their heart out to show all the terrible pressure they’ve been under. The older sibling will just take them under their arm, give all the right advice in the most condensed way possible, and make a reference to some comfort action they used to share. It’s cheesy and so overdone, but it’s always been one of Kit’s favorite scenes. Because, when he was growing up, all he wanted was an older sibling or friend with more life experience to tell him that everything will work out and he shouldn’t stress out so much.

He and Livvy are the same age, with the possibility of a few-month age gap depending on when Kit was actually born but will probably always be up in the air, but this feels like that kinship. Despite how often they’ll flick each other off across the cafeteria floor, rib each other over the smallest of things, or send stupid jokes in the middle of the night knowing it’ll wake the other up, the root of their friendship is something loving and pure, no matter what.

Livvy is like the older sibling Kit always craved when he inevitably fell asleep and woke up to an empty house.

“And you know, we can always just take your picture to see what Ty thinks.” Livvy wiggles her eyebrows, leaning in close. “He might actually really like it.”

Kit gags. “I don’t need you suggesting that, ever. Need I remind you he’s your twin brother?”

“Hey! I wasn’t suggesting anything! Just that he might be the exact opposite of opposed to you expressing yourself.” She shakes her head. “You allos man, all you can think about is sex.”

Kit puts his head in his hands, which Livvy immediately slaps away claiming it’ll ruin her masterpiece, you don’t touch the art.

After letting Livvy take one–one–picture of Kit’s makeup, they continue to lounge in silence, though now Kit has to be more conscious of not rubbing his face and how he sits so he doesn’t flash his boxer briefs. But as the clock gets closer and closer to when Ty estimated they’d be home, Kit has to take it all off.

Thankfully it’s easier than he’d thought it’d be, though Livvy goes through a lot of rules to get the makeup off that makes Kit wonder why he can’t just dunk his face in water and scrub. Asking results in such a heavy sigh that Kit absolves himself to just listening to what she says.

Looking at the dress now in Livvy’s hamper makes Kit’s heart ache, though. Even after Livvy assures him that if he ever wants to come around to wear it for a little while again–or anything else in her wardrobe–that he’s more than welcome, Kit wishes he had things in his own closet so he won’t have to express himself solely in a shared bedroom in a house miles from his own. But he meant it when he told Livvy baby steps. The longing lets him know that this is real.

He lays back down on the rug, watching Ty’s digital clock flip at each passing minute. A whole new kind of dread settles deep in his bones. He’s going to have to lie to Ty for a while. Not that Kit particularly wants to, but he’s just not ready to share it yet. It came out to Livvy because Kit was a pot boiling over and he physically couldn’t keep it contained anymore. But telling Ty will involve them sitting down and Kit having to talk through all his feelings and answering any questions Ty’s bound to have. He can’t just show up to a date–because they actually have those now–in a skirt and tights with no prior explanation. That will never go over well.

Not really knowing himself made it easier to not talk about it, but now it’s something he has to actively keep from Ty, which sucks. But necessary, for the time being.

He’s so deep in his own rumination he doesn’t notice Livvy shuffling around the room until she drops a heavy Sears bag just to the right of his head. It’s so heavy it thumps loudly even against the carpet and stays upright for all of three seconds before tipping over due to its own mass.

“Jesus Christ! Livvy! You could have taken my head off!” He yells, earning a flippant wave in return.

“I have impeccable aim, look inside.”

It’s clothes. A lot of clothes. Things he’s seen Livvy wear before and things he doesn't recognize. He spots a familiar shade of navy blue that he knows is a buttoned crop top he loved a lot when Livvy wore it. Though he’s not sure if it’s coincidence or Livvy noticed him looking that long ago.

“Livvy–”

“Ah, ah, don’t Livvy me like the idea of someone doing something nice for you is enough to send you into hysterics. They’re all clothes I haven’t worn in a while so I was going to donate them anyway. You can go through them first if you relieve me of having to go down to the GoodWill.”

“You’ve already done so much today,” he protests. Livvy just holds up her fingers.

“And people don’t have daily kindness caps. I’m allowed to be as nice as I want. Do whatever with them, they’re yours now.” She flops backward onto her bed, bouncing several inches off the mattress and rattling the lamp at her bedside. It makes Kit laugh because it always makes Ty tense when she does it, concern radiating off him in palpable waves.

Kit tucks everything back into a hopefully inconspicuous lump. It won’t fit in the duffle he brought for staying over so he can only pray no one asks why he’s taking a Sears bag he definitely didn’t arrive with. At least he has time to come up with a convincing lie.

“This is a lot like you telling me you’re bi before Ty,” Livvy says off-handedly, staring at something on her phone. Then she shoots a pointed look his way. “You need to tell Ty. I don’t like keeping shit from him.”

But Kit knows that she won’t say a thing until says it’s okay. He won’t force her to keep it a secret for longer than she must. “I will, I promise. I’m not going to go behind his back and do drag once a month to get it out of my system.”

“Oh please, you don’t have the resilience for drag. Don’t kid yourself.”

Kit cackles, which sends Livvy into a fit as well. This is good, familiar. The world hasn't tilted off its axis now that Livvy knows.

Eventually, they decide to wait downstairs so they can catch Dru before dragging Ty back out. They have plans to gorge themselves on late-night Mexican street corn from the vendor that passes by the Blackthorn’s house after a long stint selling off the Santa Monica Pier.

At a quarter to midnight, the front door opens and immediately Dru’s laugh fills the room. Her tightly woven braids had come undone at some point in the night, leaving her hair in loose curls that spill across her shoulders. With her mascara running down her cheeks, it honestly adds to the look. She’s cackling and while Ty isn’t smiling behind her, his eyes are alight and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Seeing him so happy makes Kit’s chest feel like it’s glowing.

“Good concert, I take?” Livvy asks, sprawled across the couch like a Victorian damsel after a fainting spell.

“It was amazing! Life-altering!” Dru gushes, folding herself over the back of the couch.

Ty doesn’t sit down in favor of pacing in front of the tv. “It was really fun.”

A light from upstairs clicks off as Dru dives into the setlist of each of the bands, with Ty piping in on the songs he wished they had included. All of it fades to the background as Kit just stares at his boyfriend. His eyeliner is not in the same state Dru’s is, but it has smudged out into an unintentionally smoky eye. The black is stark against the heavy flush of his cheeks. He fiddles with the end of his striped sleeves while each of his steps thud against the hardwood.

He’s an interesting mix of devastatingly handsome and cheek-pinchingly cute.

“–and Ty totally almost punched a guy!” Kit zones back in at the end of Dru’s sentence and is suddenly very invested in the conversation.

Though Livvy’s been listening to her sister attentively, she also perks up considerably. “Wait, Ty almost punched someone?” Despite asking Dru she looks directly at Ty.

“What do you mean by almost punched?” Kit adds.

“It was so badass!” Dru then turns to Ty, absolutely beaming. Ty doesn’t react, too focused on folding his sleeves a certain way over his fingers.

“He wouldn’t leave you alone,” he says, “even after you told him you’re a minor.”

“Ty found me to get our spots back in the mosh pit after a brief intermission between bands and the guy got all up in his face.” Dru's voice got a little quieter as she addresses Ty, “I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you threw a punch.”

It’s hard to imagine Ty fighting someone. The image forms vaguely with the few times he’s gone to Ty’s jiu-jitsu meets, but that’s also very controlled combat with a ton of rules and referees to prevent anyone from getting seriously hurt. Ty’s about as violent as he is protective, which isn’t a lot. Kit doesn’t want to imagine what the guy could have possibly been saying to get Ty going.

“If I hit him, we would have gotten thrown out and would have missed the rest of the show. But,” Ty looks at Dru for a second, a flash of something passing over his eyes, “he definitely deserved to get his nose broken.”

The laugh bubbles out of Kit’s throat without him really thinking and suddenly they’re all in hysterics. It’s a uniting feature of Blackthorns Kit has found, their laugh that resembles more of a shout.

“At least the concert was mostly fun?” Livvy asks, still struggling to get a full breath in.

This sends Dru into another tangent about how hot Andy Biersack was in person which has Ty softly agreeing. They got on for a while, trading stories of crazy moves by band members and other people in the mosh-pit with brightly dyed hair and more spikes on their clothes than fabric. At least the most pit wasn’t a poor experience, given its reputation.

Then Kit’s stomach groans loudly, cutting off whatever Livvy was about to say.

“I think it’s nearing street corn time,” he jokes.

Livvy shoots off the couch. “Thank god! I’ve been thinking of how to subtly hint at it in conversation for the past ten minutes. Let’s get some food!”

“I need to shower first. I smell,” Ty says.

“And as much as I love the aesthetic I slaved to create,” Dru swipes a finger under her eye, smudging what’s already there more than wiping it away, “I need to get this off before it blinds me.”

“Sounds good. Kit and I’ll just wait.” Livvy casts a look at Kit, catching him staring openly while Ty unlaces his boots. “Actually, Dru, why don’t I help you with your makeup.”

“If you want, but I’m just wiping–”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s go!”

Then they’re gone, Livvy’s promise of buying Dru her food is the last Kit hears before a door closes and leaves the house deathly quiet.

Ever since Kit and Ty started dating, Livvy’s been leaving them to have more time alone. Despite how much she loves to tease that now they’re together all they can think about is sex, she loves to set up scenarios where they have time and privacy. Kit doesn’t have the heart to tell her that they aren’t waiting for the second she’s gone to throw themselves at each other. Things have hardly changed, except that they definitely kiss more than friends. And Kit will not complain about the kissing.

“Hey,” Kit says, leaning against the wall as Ty kneels down to slide his boots off.

“Hi,” Ty replies.

Kit takes a deep breath, working up the courage to speak. They’re dating now, officially, with a few formal, romantic outings between the two of them that can no longer be passed off as friendly. He’s allowed to say these things. “You look really hot.”

“I do?” Kit can’t believe that’s how Ty responds, because clearly he’s been in front of a mirror in the last four hours.

“Yeah, babe, the eyeliner really does it for me,” Kit croons. He tries to not giggle at the heavy flush that overtakes the light exertion on Ty’s cheeks. So, instead, he leans closer to ask: “Can I have a kiss?”

Because even though they’re dating, Kit knows it’s still best to check. Ty isn’t always open to having people touch him and especially after something so stimulating as a concert with a heavy emphasis on moshing and apparently a narrowly avoided fight. He doesn’t want to assume Ty doesn’t need some space to decompress.

“I meant it when I said I smell.”

“Eh, I don’t really care.” Kit grins smugly. “And maybe I like the boyish musk.”

Ty grimaces but stands up to give Kit a peck all the same. Which still makes Kit’s insides do cartwheels around his abdomen. His lips are slightly dry against Kit’s, but since he knows they’re from Ty screaming lyrics he loves so dearly, he can’t be upset. But Ty freezes, pulling back just enough to stare at Kit’s mouth.

“Are you wearing new chapstick?” He asks. Kit touches his lips, feeling no residue left behind from the lip gloss. He made sure to get it all off and apply his usual, flavorless chapstick to soothe the friction irritation.

“Why?”

“You taste like strawberries.”

Kit flushes. Immediately, his mind starts supplying all the little lies to get out of this situation. “I must have grabbed one that I usually save for my house. Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Ty hums, his tongue darting out to run along his lips. His socked feet tap against the floor frantically. “I like it.”

And then he turns on his heel to go upstairs and shower.

Kit stands in the middle of the living room, listening to the pipes creak when Ty turns the shower on and the chime of the clock on the mantle hitting midnight. The fizzing starts up again in his stomach with renewed vigor.

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