Archive of Our Own ^beta

The moment they first laid eyes on her, Blake knew.

Not exactly. Not the details, the truths that only Ruby herself could unspool. But there was something about the way she hunched in on herself, her ill-fitting hoodie hiding her ill-fitting skin, the tiny wince when Yang introduced her with an ill-fitting name. Blake didn't know she was a woman yet, but something deep inside of them registered an echo. A resonance.

You're like me, it said. We match.

Maybe that's why Blake is so open with Yang's little brother, right from the beginning. Most people assume they're a cis woman these days, and they're fine with any pronouns—so they usually don't bother explaining that they aren't a woman at all. Too many bad experiences to want to risk it. They were roommates with Yang for almost two years before they told her, because it took that long to shake the fear that she'd think they were some kind of predator. She gave them a hug instead.

Weiss still doesn't know. Or Jaune, or Pyrrha, or Ren and Nora... Blake is fairly confident their friends would all be fine with it, even if they might have to sit Weiss down for another Talk first, but old habits die hard.

They tell R. after two weeks, because they catch him staring longingly at one of their halter tops, and suddenly it isn't about fear anymore. It's about a person who needs to know, because Blake needs to show him it's safe to ask.

And he does ask. First little things—where Blake got some of their clothes, how they got their voice to sound like that, how they can walk so gracefully in heels. (Blake tells him that last question is probably better posed to Weiss.) After that comes the kinds of questions that dig deeper, sometimes a little too deep. He asks about the binder in Blake's closet and why they don't shave their sideburns. They answer the second ("I like them.") but not the first, and R. doesn't push.

Then, once he's ready... "How did you know?"

Blake breathes out. "Honestly? For a long time, I didn't. I just knew something was wrong with me. Not that—" They wince, wishing for the hundredth time that R. had someone else in his life to play the trans elder. Someone who wouldn't fuck it up.

"No, I know! It's not that there was something wrong with you, you just... weren't who people thought you were, right?"

(That is not what Blake meant.)

"I always knew being a boy felt wrong. It felt like I was performing, and eventually it started to feel like I was lying to everyone who loved me. So I decided to experiment a little." Blake musters a weak smile. "I did the stereotypical thing where I 'borrowed' my mom's clothes. It actually put me off heels for a while, because I thought they always hurt that much. Turns out the shoes being too small makes it a lot worse."

"I've never wanted to do that," R. says, voice hushed and anxious. "I mean—I don't know. It's not like there's that much of her stuff around the house, but even if there was I'd feel weird wearing it."

(Which is when Blake remembers that R.'s mother has been missing-presumed-dead since he was four, and kicks themself for bringing it up.)

"I'm not explaining this right."

"No! No, you're explaining it really well, I'm just... I guess it makes sense, right? That I can't relate?"

"My experience isn't universal," Blake tries. "No one's is, but... um. Mine really isn't." Then, very carefully, "It doesn't necessarily mean anything. If you relate to that or not."

R. freezes. "Um..."

"I'm doing this all wrong." Blake runs a hand over their face. "Look... I've noticed you're curious. And that's okay. Even if it turns out to be nothing, it's still okay. But you don't have to be exactly like me to be trans. You don't have to have known since you were little, or tried on your mom's clothes."

For a while, R. is silent. Pensive. Then, "You said you always knew. But, before, you said you didn't figure it out for a long time."

"I knew I wasn't a boy. So... for a while, I thought that meant I was a girl. It took a long time to realize that wasn't right either."

"Oh."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, and obviously that's what was right for you, so it's a good thing, I just—!"

Blake puts an arm around his shoulders. "It's okay," they remind him. "But if you know why you're disappointed, it might help you figure things out."

They sit in silence for a little longer, R. fidgeting all the while. "I guess I like the idea of, you know. Becoming a girl. So thinking about trying to become one, and then it doesn't work..."

"It didn't work because I wasn't one," Blake says gently. "That doesn't mean it couldn't work for you."

"But... I'm not." The moment the words leave his mouth, R. cringes. "Not that—I know that's not how it works, and... and people are their gender and stuff, but..." He's close to tears now, his eyes shimmering as he stares down at his feet. "I'm sorry."

Blake squeezes his shoulder. "I was always the gender that I am. It never changed, I just learned more about it. And I'm glad you want to respect that, but... that doesn't mean you have to think of yourself that way."

"Huh?"

"How are you feeling? And it's not bad or wrong if that's different from me. I'm not going to be upset if you say something that contradicts how I feel, because this isn't about me. Okay?"

R. sniffles. "I guess... I've never felt like I'm not a boy. I don't feel like I'm lying or pretending or anything. I just wish I could be a girl, that's all."

"In that case, I think I have some good news—that's allowed."

R. looks up, mouth gaping open.

"It's your gender. Why shouldn't you do whatever you want with it?"

"...Oh."

"And you don't have to decide right now, or anything like that," Blake adds hurriedly. "Just... don't hold yourself back because you don't meet some arbitrary standard of trans enough. Do what feels right for you."

"What if I don't know? There's just so much stuff, clothes and makeup and hormones and surgery..."

"One thing at a time. The worst thing you can do for yourself right now is treat it like being trans is one full package, and you have to decide on the whole thing right at the beginning. There are going to be tradeoffs, you can't pick and choose the effects of hormones, but most of it isn't like that. Most of it is just... making a lot of little choices that fit you better. You don't have to know where you're going until you get there."

R. is quiet for a while, just processing. Then, voice small and heartbreakingly hopeful, "Can I try on some of your clothes?"

The first thing they learn is that they are not the same size. R. winds up on the floor of Blake's room, kicking his feet in the air and giggling uncontrollably as the cuffs of his borrowed leggings flap like little wings. It makes her laugh, too, the kind of bright and easy laugh she almost forgot she was capable of.

The next thing they learn is that R. really, really likes feminine pronouns. Blake offers to try them out while Yang is off at a party with Nora and Pyrrha, and from the moment she says it—"This is Yang's little sister, she likes books too,"—R. lights up. Blake keeps talking to her, doing the opposite of what she normally would and peppering in as many pronouns as she can. And then she has to stop, because her voice is getting thick, and she doesn't want to cry and ruin the moment.

(You're beautiful, Blake. My beautiful girl.)

They toss around names, only half-serious at first, until R. points out that she can always just go by Rose.

"It's pretty, if you want to use your last name."

"No," Rose says gravely. "It'd be my first name. I'd be Rose Rose."

She times it for the exact moment that Blake takes a sip of her tea, making her choke and splutter, and turning their half-serious conversation entirely unserious.

(Blake cried, talking to Adam about changing her name. It wasn't as if it was a masculine name, but... it wasn't really a feminine name, either. She was a woman, wasn't she? Why not have a woman's name?

She cried again, when filling out her application to Beacon gave her the chance to change it back.)

In time, Blake also learns that she's not the only one to struggle with coming out to her roommate. The longer they spend together, lost in their own little world, the harder Rose flinches every time Yang tells her how proud she is of her little brother. Yang will never stop loving her like she hung the stars, of course. But the fear still lingers, and Blake...

Blake doesn't know what to tell her.

Reassurance feels too much like pushing her to come out before she's ready. She tells Rose how Yang reacted to her, and it seems to help a little, but Blake isn't family. It isn't enough. And every time she tries to remind her to take her time, she has plenty of it... Blake swallows the words without voicing them.

("Your parents won't understand. They don't see you the way I do.")

Ghira and Kali were from an older generation, one that fought hard for what little they had. One that sometimes dismissed the complexities of gender as yet another human custom being forced on them, rather than one being painstakingly disassembled. Blake wasn't sure how they would react.

She ran away with him, and never let them show her.

But that was her mistake. She refuses to project it on Rose and try to meddle in her life.

In the meantime, Blake takes her shopping in a mall full of ghosts. Everything she touches seems to throw her back in time—she's looking at dresses, at skirts and fishnets and knee-high socks, remembering the ones he handed to her years ago. Remembering how she distracted one of the security guards, so he could slip away with the few outfits he'd picked out for her.

"There's so much," Rose says, standing up on her tiptoes to take in the sea of fabric. "How do I even...?"

Blake doesn't dare direct her. "I guess... we could start with trying something on. Just something random, so you can get a sense of what you like and what you don't."

Rose struts out of the changing room in a lime green crop top. It's emblazoned with the Cheetos mascot, and the words, "It's not easy being cheesy!" in bright orange lettering. After watching Blake's expression contort for several seconds, she breaks into a broad grin.

"I've eliminated one option!"

Blake laughs along with her, a bit shakily.

"You should've seen your face," Rose says, still giggling, as she grabs Blake's hand and leads the charge deeper into the women's section. "You were trying so hard not to gag."

"Sorry."

"Huh? Blake, that thing was hideous. I'm kind of impressed you didn't crack, if I saw Yang wear that I would've had to make fun of her for at least a week."

"This is important," Blake says, and grimaces when it comes out sharper than she meant it. "I just... if wearing something makes you happy, I don't think it's my place to judge you."

"You're sweet." Rose squeezes her hand, reminding Blake abruptly that she's still holding it. "And I appreciate it, but I lived with Yang in middle school. I saw her fashion crimes! I kinda want some advice so I can wear stuff that actually looks good?"

Blake pulls away, stuffing both hands into her pockets. They're deep—because she bought these jeans in the men's section, along with the combat boots she wears almost everywhere, so long ago that the black has long since faded to a stormy grey.

("Why do you keep wearing those ratty old things? You're beautiful, my love. Don't you want to show the world how beautiful you are?")

"I don't know. I think... maybe the middle school fashion disaster phase isn't such a bad thing. Maybe having the freedom to make mistakes is important."

Rose is looking at her. Blake can feel it, though she doesn't dare lift her gaze from her own belt buckle.

"Okay," Rose says softly. "So... how about we try speedrunning it?"

What follows is a whirlwind of the absolute worst possible outfits, according to Rose Rose. It's funny at first—Blake notices that they're almost universally brightly colored, with hardly a whisper of red or black, which teaches her a lot about Rose's taste completely backwards. Her magnum opus involves a monstrously oversized hoodie the same shade of yellow as Blake's favorite highlighter, proudly emblazoned with, "Gotta get my Lem-on!" Rose pairs it with neon orange basketball shorts, and mismatched socks.

It's exactly the sort of thing Yang might wear. When Blake points that out, it takes nearly a full minute before Rose can stop laughing long enough to demand that they send her a photo.

(Blake is careful with her angles, to make sure it's not obvious from the picture that they're in front of the women's changing rooms.)

It's a fun way to shop, but as time wears on and Rose keeps getting more and more creative with her terrible outfits, Blake can't stop noticing the patterns. No skirts or dresses. Nothing that doesn't clash so hideously that almost anyone could point to it being a "bad" choice. Nothing risky.

Eventually, Blake stops her with a hand on her arm as she's getting ready to tear off in search of another technicolor nightmare. "Hey."

"Hey?" Rose gives her a confused, lopsided smile. "What's up?"

"I think... maybe it's time to pick something that looks good to you."

"Ooh, I've graduated from my fashion disaster phase! Does that mean you'll actually give me some advice now?"

"I might," Blake allows. "But... first, I want to see what you want to look like. Okay? No irony or bad on purpose, just a style that feels right. I can't pick that out for you."

Rose looks away, and this time her nerves creep into her laugh. "Um... yeah! On it."

Blake makes a show of being very absorbed in choosing a new pair of socks, to give Rose space while she makes her selections. It takes a long time before she gets the text telling her to come to the changing rooms.

She knocks lightly on the door. It opens haltingly, revealing Rose's face peeking around the edge.

"Don't laugh!"

"I won't."

So Rose lets her step inside, and marvel at an outfit that wouldn't look out of place on the cover of a Gothic romance novel. The kind with lots of vampires.

The stark black-and-red color palette is more or less exactly what Blake expected. What she didn't see coming is the not-quite-knee-length skirt, or the faux-lace trimmed blouse, or the thorny vines creeping up the sides of her stockings. It's high femme. It's completely over the top. It's gorgeous.

"Why did you even want my advice?" Blake wonders aloud. "You're way better at this than I am."

"Wha—you've been doing this way longer than me! I don't know what I'm doing!"

"I cheat. Black jeans go with everything."

"But, I mean..." Rose hugs her arms around herself. "It's not... too much?"

"You might be a little overdressed for buying pop tarts at three in the morning," Blake says gently, "but it's perfect for going to a party, or even just hanging out with our friends. You look beautiful."

Rose turns bright red. "Blake!"

"What? You wanted my feedback." Blake smirks at her. "But the important question is... do you like it?"

"I—yeah."

"You hesitated."

Rose pulls a face at her. "Shut up!"

"If there's something that's bothering you about it, that is something I can help with. Sometimes it's just about finding a better fit."

"No, it's not that, I just—" Her face falls. "I had this like, mini goth phase when I was a kid? It only lasted like two weeks. I guess I realized the guy version didn't look as cool. But you said not to make it bad on purpose, so I was trying not to be all... you know. Middle school goth phase."

"I said to pick out what looks good to you," Blake reminds her. "If you think it looks good, then you're not making it bad on purpose. Besides, you've seen my closet. You really think someone who wears this much black is going to judge you for wanting a goth phase?"

Rose chews her lip. "I, um. I kind of wanted to try a corset."

"Then let's get you a corset," Blake says, smiling despite the slight lump in her throat. "Though, this is the part where I do actually have fashion advice—that's not something we can buy here. It's really important that those fit you well, which means getting one with your measurements."

"Doesn't that mean it won't fit anymore if I go on estrogen?" Rose asks. "Since, you know... boobs?"

"Yes. But, honestly?" Blake gestures at her own chest and grimaces. "Most of my tops stopped fitting me, so we might need to go on another shopping trip then anyway."

"I think I'll wait for a boob celebration corset." And then, before Blake can decide whether to comment on her planning around taking estrogen at some point, "There was a fake one that I didn't grab. Like, it kind of looked like one but it didn't have all the boning or whatever."

"Let's go with that for now, then. It'll help get an idea of what the outfit will look like."

So they grab it, as well as a few more casual options. Still the same red and black color scheme, but simpler and easier to put on, and even including a few skirts with actual pockets. Rose insists on modeling each of them, her smile growing until it's nearly blinding. And when they're finished, she asks if she can try on the first outfit just one more time.

"Of course," Blake says, and wonders how Rose thinks she even needs to ask. As if it's some kind of inconvenience. As if her joy isn't infectious, light seeping through cracks Blake hasn't let herself think about in years.

Rose is reluctant to take it off when it's time for them to check out. Blake wants to tell her to keep it on, to wear it home, to hell with the fact that they're meeting Yang for boba in half an hour and she still doesn't know. She doesn't want to let the moment go.

"One more thing," she says instead, and holds out a hand. "I want to show you something."

("Show me a twirl.")

Rose takes it, mouth falling open as she recognizes the gesture from when Weiss taught them all ballroom dancing. A slight flush rises in her cheeks. Her smile widens, and she leans into the spin.

(A too-short hem, lifting even higher with the motion. Fishnets that weren't her idea. The crawling sensation of being watched.)

Silver eyes fix on the mirror, watching the skirt flare out, filling up with wonder like a lake fills with moonlight. There's a laugh of pure delight. A tug at her hand, again, again!

Blake spins her dizzy. And in the end, when Rose looks up at her from where she's catching her breath on the changing room bench, and asks if she's okay... she has no idea how to answer her.

It feels like grieving. Like setting a bone, somewhere beneath her sternum. Like wanting to laugh and dance and scream.

"You're beautiful," she murmurs, and this time it isn't about the outfit. This time it's much too soft to be safe.

You're beautiful, and I'm so scared I'm going to ruin it.

Inevitably—once Rose has the clothes, she wants to wear them. Blake takes her out as often as they can, to give her the chance to spend some time away from their circle of friends. To disappear into another world where nobody knows her.

They bend over backwards to avoid calling those outings dates, because it already feels too much like luring her away from her friends and family. It doesn't matter if it's just temporary, so that Rose won't be outed before she's ready to tell them. He always told Blake the same thing.

Of course, the problem with their little getaways is that there are only so many places in easy walking distance from Beacon. Even if they take the bus, and pick out the most inconvenient spots on purpose, well... eventually they're bound to run into someone else doing the same thing.

At least Pyrrha is a friendly face. Weiss, caught on the defensive and backed into a corner... not so much. It takes assuring her several times that no, they aren't going to tell anyone, before she finally relaxes enough to sit down and share some fries.

"You're not gonna tell anybody either, right?" Rose asks, picking anxiously at her own plate.

Weiss looks plainly offended. "Of course not, who do you think I am?!"

"Actually," says Pyrrha, much more softly, "I do want to ask... should we be referring to you differently? At least, among specific company?"

Rose wilts a little lower in her chair. "I haven't told anybody else."

"And you don't have to," Blake reminds her. "It's okay if you're not ready yet."

Weiss frowns. "But this is... that, then? I mean, you're trying to become a woman?"

Considering how she was raised, it could have been much worse—but Blake still bristles. "What does trying mean there, Weiss?"

A long, world-weary sigh. "My only experience with this thus far has been my sister's sort-of-ex running away to join a lesbian commune. Let's just assume I'll need to do some reading and table it for now."

"Sure," says Rose, "but you can't bring up something like that and then drop it. Your sister has an ex-girlfriend who did what?! This is about Winter, right? The Winter I met?"

Weiss' entire face starts to twitch. "That's not—she isn't—alright, I suppose she does, but it's not as if she knew that at the time."

"It doesn't necessarily mean anything about her sexuality," Blake says diplomatically, deciding to take pity on Weiss—especially considering they just interrupted her in the middle of figuring out her own.

(Especially considering the way Weiss said it, not doubtful but trying-not-to-be-hopeful, like maybe it would mean a lot for the two of them to be alike.)

"Anyway..." Rose stares intently at the fry she's been poking into her ketchup. "I think you were trying to ask if I'm trans? And, uh... I'm still figuring stuff out, but I'm pretty sure I am."

Weiss gives a sharp nod, as if she's trying to shock her brain into absorbing the information properly. "I see. Then I should refer to you as Yang's sister?"

Rose starts to sink into her seat all over again. "I like she and her pronouns, yeah, but... um. Yang kind of doesn't know yet. So. Maybe not in front of her? I want to tell her myself."

"Oh." Weiss' eyes go very wide. Blake catches her glancing in their direction, and decides now is as good a time as any.

"I'm trans too," they add, carefully casual, studying her expression out of the corner of their eye. And distracted, they fail to anticipate the obvious.

"So I should refer to you as a man, from now on—what?" Weiss notices Pyrrha and Rose both cringing, and flushes. "Isn't that...?"

"Wrong direction. Sort of, it's complicated. You don't need to change how you refer to me, I transitioned before we met."

Weiss buries her head in her arms. "Oh god."

Blake probably shouldn't be amused, but... well. After everything they've been through to get here, is it so wrong to enjoy watching Weiss Schnee squirm a little? "You're not the first person to make that mistake. But in the future, you might want to just ask what someone's pronouns are. It would spare you the awkward moment."

"Noted," Weiss mumbles into the tabletop.

"This is grand," Pyrrha says, beaming at Rose until she can't help but smile back. "I'm so happy for you—oh! I haven't asked for your name."

"Rose, at least for now! Haven't figured out a permanent one yet."

The rest of their impromptu dinner goes rather well, all things considered. Weiss quickly catches on to the strategy of letting Pyrrha take the lead, at least when it comes to questions about Rose's transition, which means the frequency of awkward moments sharply decreases. Soon they're all complaining about their exams together, any accidental outings long forgotten. Blake gives Weiss a reading list and leaves the diner fairly confident that she'll be fine after a few days to digest.

Frankly, they're more worried about Rose. She's quiet as they head out into the street. In unspoken agreement, they skip the bus Pyrrha and Weiss are taking back to campus, to savor the evening air a while longer.

"Hey," Blake murmurs, catching her hand and giving it a squeeze. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah! It was a lot, but I think it went okay."

"I know Weiss didn't mean to hurt you, but that doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel hurt."

Rose glances away. "It's not that. It's... this is going to sound dumb."

"I promise you it isn't."

"Yang's the last to know. Of the four of us, I mean. I feel bad."

"That isn't your fault," Blake points out. "You couldn't have known that would happen."

"Yeah, but... if I'd told her sooner—"

"You don't have to feel guilty for waiting until you're ready. It's normal for it to be scary, even if you're pretty sure it'll be okay."

"I'm not scared." Rose hugs her arms around herself. "I mean—I'm not scared she'll be mad at me or not love me anymore or anything. I'm scared she'll feel guilty. Like... she'll think she should've figured it out when I was little and helped me through it."

Blake blows out a long breath. "That... does sound a lot more like her."

"It's not her fault. How was she supposed to know when even I didn't?"

"I know. But..." Blake reaches out, and slowly draws Rose into a hug. "It's not your fault either. You didn't choose this."

"Didn't I, though? I'm not... like you, exactly. I was okay. If I just ignored it, I'd still be okay."

Blake's stomach flips. It's not as though they don't believe her—it isn't really their place to not believe her, but...

It scares them, just a little, the way she says it. Sweet and bright and sincere. Like it's perfectly normal, to kill a part of yourself rather than be inconvenient. So long as it won't kill the rest of you, so long as the pain is something you can stand... then what right do you have, to not want to hurt at all?

("I saw you when no one else did! I helped you show the whole world the beautiful woman I always knew you were, and all I wanted was for you to be that for me. Why can't you do that?

"Why can't you just be happy?")

Familiar. It's scary because it's familiar.

Blake presses their forehead to her temple, and breathes until they can trust their voice again. "You don't have to do that, you know. You don't always have to make it okay."

Rose stiffens in their arms, and they almost pull away, but then she grabs a fistful of their shirt like a lifeline. "I just—I don't want to stress everyone out, that's all. Midterms are coming up, and—and dad's been doing really well lately and I don't want him to start wondering about, you know, what mom would've done..."

And for the first time, the voice in the back of Blake's head—the one that loves to whisper about tarnish and decay, about ruining her—goes silent. So they draw back, and tilt her face up to meet their eyes, and say the words that might have saved them all those years ago.

"Someone who loves you, who really loves you—and I know that Yang does—they'll want you to be happy. Not just smiling through the pain. Really, actually happy. Even if that means having to hear you hurt out loud."

Rose sniffles, and squirms out of their arms to scrub at her face. "I don't know why I'm... sorry."

"No." Blake tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You never have to apologize for that, okay? You're allowed to take up space. I want you to take up space."

She breathes in, harsh and ragged. Breathes out, slow and steady. Looks up, the light of a nearby streetlamp catching in her eyes, shining in the tears clinging to her lashes... and kisses them.

An hour ago, Blake might have turned and run. Maybe they will, an hour from now, once reality sets in. But right here, right now? They're tired of ghosts.

They kiss her back.

Her lip gloss tastes like strawberries, and for an instant they actually feel their age—only two years older, with most of their life still ahead of them. As if they've swallowed her giddy laugh and been renewed.

When it's over, they walk back to the dorms hand in hand. And when they reach Blake and Yang's room, when Rose would normally change... she doesn't. She only perches on Blake's bed, and asks them to stay until Yang gets home.

In the weeks that follow, Rose blooms.

There's no other word for it. Once Yang knows—once she's cried, not from guilt but from pride—her fear evaporates. She's out in their friend group in hours, out to the faculty in days, and making an appointment with the health center for hormones by the end of the month. As if all her efforts were tied up in holding those things back, and now that she doesn't need to they all come rushing out of her at once. She dances with Nora in the quad, both of them completely out of rhythm, laughing her joy for the whole world to hear.

Blake is happy for her. She really is, it's just... unfathomable. She literally cannot imagine looking Glynda Goodwitch dead in the eyes and telling her what pronouns to use. And she knows it's not as easy as it looks, that Rose has needed help from Yang and the rest of her friends to do it, but... maybe that's it. Maybe it's just weird, to imagine coming out for the first time in an environment like this.

Maybe it says more about Blake than it does about Rose, that unconditional support is apparently such a foreign concept to her.

For a while, she manages to put it out of her mind, at least most of the time. She's learned how to keep herself grounded in the present, and give the past no ground to take root in.

(She's learned what happens when she doesn't.)

And then, Rose and Yang's father comes to visit.

Blake likes Taiyang. She's met him before, a handful of times, on various family weekends and Yang's game days. It's not all good, she knows Yang's relationship with him has its strains—not to mention that he almost always brings the dog with him—but it's not bad either. There's no lack of love there.

That weekend is the first time she understands, on a gut level, why Weiss always finds somewhere else to be whenever he's around.

Rose tells him on Friday, and he spends that evening doing an impromptu photo shoot with her and Yang to replace his old lock screen. Spends Saturday asking if she's sure she doesn't need anything, clothes or books or help making appointments, egged on by the way Rose always hesitates like there is something.

On Sunday, she finally asks about it. And by Monday, she's reintroducing herself to all their friends, this time as Ruby Rose.

(She takes Blake aside afterwards, and hugs her. Admits into the crook of her neck that it's what her mother would have named her.

Admits, a long time later, that her dad told her Summer would have been proud of her.)

Blake holds it together as long as she can, and then hides in a bathroom stall for nearly an hour. All the while thinking about the name she didn't want to change, and the chance she never gave the ones who loved her the most, and the aching void at the heart of the Xiao Long-Rose family. The chance she still has, that Ruby never will.

She's so scared they think she's dead. She's so scared they think she's still with him, and has been all this time, and if they find out she isn't...

What the fuck is she supposed to tell them, when they ask why she let them worry for so long?

Blake knows he was wrong about them. Not even wrong, but lying. He didn't know how they'd take it any more than she did. But he wanted to believe they would hate her, because he wanted Blake to believe they would hate her, and she did. Whatever they might think about having a not-quite-daughter instead of a son, does it even matter anymore? She believed him. A betrayal like that is more than enough reason to give up on her, all on its own.

She's still thinking about it days later, when Taiyang is back in Patch and Ruby is sitting behind her on her bed, painstakingly braiding her hair. She confessed that it was something she'd always wanted to learn to do when she was little—one of those formative slumber party experiences she'd missed growing up. And even if Yang would probably let her do it anyway, she wasn't exactly the best person to practice new hairstyles on.

"You're good at this," Blake notes, glancing into the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She's not usually one for braids, but it looks so good that she thinks she might keep it in for a few days.

Ruby laughs. "You're definitely being too nice to me."

"No such thing." Blake glances at the mirror again, but this time she's looking at the woman behind her. "I mean it, you know. All of this... it's not easy. I'm impressed with how you've been handling it."

That makes her blush. "I mean, I had you to help me."

"No." Blake gently disengages from Ruby's hands, still playing with the finished braid, and turns so that she can look directly at her. "I don't get credit for that, okay? You could have done this without me. It might have happened differently, you might have asked different people different questions, but you didn't need me."

Ruby's face falls. "You keep doing that. I was so... lost, before. I didn't even know there was this huge thing weighing me down all the time. You showed me I could be happier, and I just—I want to thank you. That's all."

"I learned a lot from you, too. It's not—you don't owe me anything, okay?"

"Blake... I never said I did."

Fuck.

"Fuck," Blake says, drawing her knees up to her chest and hiding her face in them. "I'm sorry."

Ruby presses against her back, hugging her tightly from behind. "It's okay."

"It's not. I don't want to put that on you. Any of it."

"A while ago... you told me it was okay to take up space. That someone who loved me would want me to be happy, even if it meant they had to see me hurting sometimes." Ruby rested her chin on Blake's shoulder. "Was that just for everyone else?"

"I—no, I just—"

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's just... I'm not fragile, okay? I'm a big girl, I can take it."

Blake sighs. "It's not really a big deal. It's just... I had someone like that, a long time ago. Someone who guided me when I felt lost. He saw through me, when I was trying so hard to pretend for everyone around me. It was like he gave me permission to tell the truth."

"Did he..." Ruby winces, squeezing Blake a little tighter. "I mean, it sounds like he's..."

At that, Blake smiles an empty, twisted smile. "He's alive and well. At least, he was when I left. It turned out he had a different idea about my truth than I did. He wanted a fairy tale princess he could rescue from her horrible curse, and... he expected her to be grateful. Not to turn around and start wearing combat boots and distressed jeans."

"...Oh."

She's never told anyone before. And now that she's started, she can't stop—her truth comes heaving out of her like bile, burning her throat all the way up. "We didn't have money. We didn't have insurance or doctors or anything like that, I still have no idea how he got me hormones. What was I supposed to say? He gave me a miracle so I had to take it, and now I have a binder in my closet and I don't know if I—"

It's awful. It's so awful that she laughs, because she's talking about life-saving medication like it's some evil spell he cast on her. Like exactly the kind of ungrateful bitch she turned out to be in the end. "It's stupid. So many people need it, I'm still taking it, I like the parts that aren't permanent."

Ruby starts rubbing her back. "I mean... testosterone is life-saving medication for a lot of people. For other people it's horrible poison. For me it just felt like wearing wet socks all the time."

Blake laughs again—this time with real humor, startled out of her too suddenly for the shame to swallow it. "I hated it," she admits. "It did feel like horrible poison. Estrogen probably saved my life, I'm being ridiculous."

"You're not." Ruby reached out to take her hand. "This whole time... you kept telling me over and over that it was up to me. That you couldn't make those choices for me. Especially something that big, right?"

"Yeah."

"So... isn't it kind of messed up that he did? I'm guessing he didn't ask before he got it for you."

"No. No, he didn't." Blake rubs her temples. "And it was messed up. I know that, that's why I needed to make sure I gave you space, I just... I know he was awful. But I was pretty awful, too."

"Why?"

Blake turns. Ruby is watching her steadily—it's a trap, it's clearly a trap, but there's no sign of malice in her eyes. So Blake tries to answer.

She was ungrateful. An insult to people like Ruby, who were really struggling. Just a spoiled little girl who liked to imagine herself a heroic crusader for justice, but in the end she had everything she wanted handed to her on a silver platter, and still found reasons to complain.

Except that she hadn't asked for most of it. He was always the one most excited for her transformation—for each step that made her more easily digestible as his submissive girlfriend, because gods forbid the teenager he was having sex with threaten his manhood by being a little bit masculine herself.

Blake hugs herself, fingers resting across Ruby's forearm. "I watched him hurt a lot of people. People I didn't know how to help." And then, softly... "I think maybe I was one of them."

"Well... maybe it's time to make that up to you a little bit. If you're looking for permission? I think I was." Ruby burrows her face into Blake's back. "You don't have to settle for not being totally miserable."

She knows that. She's known that for years—it's not that she isn't allowed to make things better for herself. It's just been a very long time since she's felt like she deserves to.

Maybe it's time to do it anyway.

The binder in Blake's closet has been there for nearly two years. Untouched, hidden away in the dark, bought in a fit of longing because ordering it online took less courage than actually wearing it.

It's been longer than two years since anyone has called Blake he. Longer still since he's called himself that in his own head. Back then, it was always as an insult. It meant clumsy and violent and cruel. It was the prison he'd been trapped in since he was old enough to understand what it meant.

Maybe it's always been more about that. Feeling trapped. Adam turned womanhood into its own sort of prison, and with years of distance... with the awareness of having stepped inside them of his own accord... his old pronouns feel much kinder than they used to.

People always make assumptions. It's always been easier to fall into routine, to accept good enough, to sleep in the bed he made instead of being inconvenient.

She's tired of doing that.

They want to be free.

Reclamation efforts begin with wearing the binder to class, under a hoodie that makes it nearly unnoticeable anyway. Just to see how it feels. Because he is still a tender bruise, and he's a little afraid of pressing on it—but it feels good when he does, and discovers a part of himself healed enough to bear the strain of stretching it again. It's a sign that she won't carry that ache forever.

He tells his friends, next. Yang and Weiss and Pyrrha are the only ones who know enough to be confused—Yang and Pyrrha encouraging him anyway, Weiss getting that pinched look that means she's probably going to spend the next several days in the queer resource center trying to wrangle some sense of understanding out of herself. (It's kind of sweet in its own way, though at some point he should probably tell her to just ask.)

Ruby isn't surprised at all. He never told her, exactly, but she must have read enough between the lines to find this page familiar. She just smiles at him like she's proud, and he manages not to cry too obviously.

Everyone else makes the obvious assumption—and for the most part, Blake doesn't correct it. He feels better expressing masculinity as something trans, something chosen. Wants to put manhood and womanhood on equal footing, neither any more predestined or safe or rebellious than the other, because he's had to fight hard for both.

But old habits die hard. He can't quite take Sun's enthusiasm, embracing him as a "binder buddy" and offering advice if he ever needs any. It makes him feel like an impostor. So he explains the situation, badly, only for Sun to blink at him and say, "Okay. But we can still be binder buddies, right?"

And, well. Blake complains about how hot and itchy his gets, and it turns out to be a pretty universal experience, so apparently they can.

Sun talks about wanting top surgery, sometimes. Blake isn't ready to even think about that—still too raw from the phantom terror of what might have happened, if Adam had found a way to work those sorts of miracles. Blake has time, now. As much time as he needs to decide what he wants from his body. On some days he wishes they were gone, but on others he thinks he might just wish they were a little smaller, and every once in a while they make him feel alive with the same joy as when they first started growing. It'll be a while before he can make any sense of that, if he ever does. But at least this time it'll be up to him.

The outfits he used to wear never go away. He mixes them together, the old and the new, binder and eyeshadow and halter tops and beat-up black jeans. It's fun to feel like he has a choice in the mornings. Like he can tip the eyes of the world one way or another on a whim, without it really having to mean anything. He's had to struggle with this for so long, tearing himself apart to make himself easier to process. To fade into the background, assimilated into whatever category is most comfortable for an observer, because being seen is agonizing.

But why is he always the one who has to compromise? Why is it his responsibility to tailor everything he wears, everything he does, even the shape of his own body, to letting other people feel like they get it just by looking? Why shouldn't he do whatever the hell he wants, and let them be confused?

It's still scary. But it's getting less scary by the day, because this time he isn't alone. The people around him might not understand—that would be a tall order, when he doesn't either—but they don't have to. Sometimes caring is more important.

So one night, when he's ready, Blake writes a letter to two people who wouldn't understand.

Hi, mom. Hi, dad.

I'm sorry it's been so long. I've been putting off sending this letter because it always felt like I'd missed my chance, but I guess late is better than never.

I'm okay. Adam isn't in my life anymore. I'm going to school at Beacon Academy, and if everything goes well next year, I'll be graduating with a literature degree. I've made much better friends here.

I know I worried you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for shutting you out, and I'm sorry for the things I said. Mostly I'm just sorry that I didn't trust you.

I'm not your son. I never was. I wish I could say I was your daughter, but that's not really right either. It's hard to explain, and I think I ran away because I was scared to try. I didn't want to disappoint you. So I hurt you instead, which is worse, and I'm sorry about that too.

I understand if you don't want to see me. I just wanted you to know that I'm safe, and I'll be at this address if you want me to explain in person.

I love you,

Blake

"Blake? You're biting your nails again."

They jump, snatching their hand away and burying it under one thigh so they won't do it again. They're already at the quick.

"Thanks," they mutter, giving Ruby a squeeze with their other hand. She squeezes back.

"You sure you don't want me to stay while you talk to them?"

They aren't, actually. It already feels like a bizarre mirror image of sitting with her while she waited for Yang—except that they're outside, at a picnic bench, and Blake doesn't have a Gothic romance outfit to wear for their coming out.

Which is unfortunate, because it means they spent the whole morning overthinking the hell out of what to wear. It feels like months of progress have gone up in smoke. Easy to say that you're going to dress for yourself and let people think whatever they want, when the highest the stakes get is a lit class at a liberal arts college.

They nearly asked to borrow some of Ruby's clothes, because they don't own a single skirt. Except that they don't own a single skirt because they don't like wearing them, so that was obviously trying too hard, but... wearing the binder feels too much like hiding. Like brushing everything that's different now under the rug, and putting off having to talk to them about it. It isn't, when they wear it to lit class—but it would feel like that, seeing their parents for the first time since before they had anything to bind.

Weirdly, they're reminded of those lit classes. Of how symbolism is meaningless by itself, because it takes on meaning based on context—who wrote it, and who's reading it, and when and why. A binder would be a defiant scream to Adam, and maybe that's why they like it so much even in more neutral settings. To their parents... it's exactly what they'd expect.

They aren't what their parents are expecting. So here, now, it would feel like a lie.

(Ruby, who listened to them struggle to explain this for hours while they agonized over their closet, might be an actual saint. By the time they finally left, even Blake wanted to throttle themself.)

"No," they sigh. "Thank you, but... I think I need to do this myself."

"Okay. Just let me know when you see..."

Ruby's voice fades away into garbled static—because Blake spots a towering figure on the other side of the quad, weaving between a gaggle of freshmen playing frisbee.

"I, um. I think I see them."

A soft kiss on the cheek startles Blake so much that they finally manage to tear their eyes away, just long enough to catch Ruby's reassuring smile. "I'll be right over there, okay?" She points to a row of benches, facing away from the picnic table but close enough to be in earshot if Blake shouts.

"Okay."

And then she's gone, and Blake is left to watch Ghira Belladonna approach.

It takes a minute before they can see their mom, who isn't head and shoulders above the crowd of students enjoying the nice weather, and another minute more before they realize their parents aren't going to find them without help. Both of them are scanning the quad, heads turning this way and that, but they can't recognize Blake as easily as Blake recognized them.

They feel a pang in the pit of their stomach, and raise their hand to wave. Kali spots them first, tugging at Ghira's arm to turn him around, and Blake tries not to panic as they approach.

They half-stand, awkwardly, not sure if they should meet them halfway or not. Their hesitation makes the choice for them. Soon their mom breaks into a run, their dad only steps behind her, and they're crushed against the picnic table in a tight, desperate hug.

"Oh, sweetheart... let me look at you." Their mom pulls back to cup their face in her hands, thumbs skimming gently over their cheeks. "I'm so glad you're alright."

Blake can't help hearing it as an admonishment, a condemnation for all the time they let her worry. "I'm sorry. I know I should have written sooner, I just—"

"Blake..." Pressed against their dad's chest as they are, they can feel the rumble of their name all around them. But then he stops, hesitation and anxiety driving him to ask, "Is it still Blake? Your letter mentioned—and we found a few books for the flight, but there wasn't much time..."

They want to reassure him. But when they try to speak, they burst into tears instead. It only makes him more frantic, and just the thought of him apologizing for not knowing their name, when they haven't spoken to him in years...

"I'm sorry!"

"No," he soothes. "No, it's alright."

They're making a scene now, the light makeup they'd agonized over this morning already starting to run. Their mom guides them down onto the picnic bench, pulling a packet of tissues from her purse and helping Blake clean up the mess, while their dad hovers fretfully on their other side.

"It's still Blake," is the first thing they manage to choke out, once they've got their breathing back under control. "I didn't... I never wanted to change it."

"Alright." Ghira gives them a watery smile, folding their hand between both of his. "I only want you to know that we love you, no matter who you are. The last thing I want is to push you away again."

It sinks like a stone into the pit of their stomach, the undercurrent of terror that they're going to disappear again at the slightest misstep. "It wasn't like that," they say, nearly tripping over the words in their haste to get them out. Even though it was. It just wasn't his fault. "You didn't do anything, I didn't let you."

He grimaces. "Maybe I should have."

"What...?"

"Blake, you're our—" Ghira hesitates again, struggling before he finds the right word. "You're our little cub. Nothing we could learn about you would ever change that, and I should have told you that."

"You did!" It's getting hard to breathe again. This conversation is cutting far too close to things they're not remotely ready to talk about, but they can't sit here and say nothing and let their dad think he failed them. "Adam, he—he said you'd—and I know I was stupid to believe him, I just—"

Their scroll dings cheerfully. It startles them so badly that they almost leap right off the bench, until their mom lays a steadying hand on their shoulder.

"Go ahead, honey. It's alright."

"Sorry," they say, wretchedly, "I have it set so it doesn't make noise for most people, it might be..."

And then they check their text, and see that it's from Ruby. "U ok? I have Yang on standby for a distract and extract if u need out!"

Blake turns and finds her still sitting on the benches, though she's twisted around with both hands pressed against the back, watching with such obvious worry that it's visible from halfway across the quad. They give her a thumbs-up. And if she's a little reluctant when she turns back around, well...

For all the anxious preparation Blake did leading up to today, it somehow never occurred to them that they should prepare Ruby. Which it should have, given that the last time one of her friends' family came to visit for the first time, the day ended with Weiss being disowned.

"Sorry," they say again, though this time they're smiling a little. "My friend got worried, that's all."

Their mom's eyebrows raise. "Oh?"

"Kali," says their dad, admonishing.

Blake flushes scarlet and starts to splutter. "We aren't—I mean, we haven't talked about—um—!"

"You relaxed when she checked on you, dear," Kali says. "That's all I need to know. Besides, I'd much rather talk about your new friends and your new life here than argue about who's more at fault."

Ghira frowns. "It wasn't his—their fault."

"No," Kali agrees. And then she looks at Blake, and there's something tight and pained in the lines around her mouth, like maybe they've already said more than they meant to. "But we don't need to dredge up the past when there's so much to catch up on."

He scowls, but acquiesces with a sigh. "Fine. As long as you know that we don't blame you, for any of it."

Blake has no idea how, but... they nod, their eyes dropping to trace the wood grain in the picnic table. And at least for now, it's enough.

They talk about their classes. They talk about Yang, and Weiss, and Ruby, and the sprawling network of new people they've become a part of. They talk about dad's quest to build a college on Menagerie, and the new books mom's been scavenging for the public library. About walks on the beach and the smell of the ocean and childhood memories. About everything, and nothing at all.

When the weekend draws to a close, and their parents say their goodbyes, it's with promises to come back for the next family weekend. And Blake...

Blake feels different. Like they've shed some invisible weight, and suddenly gravity has no hold on them. Sometimes it's as if they might float away if they stop paying attention to the ground long enough. Sometimes, it just feels like being a person instead of a monster. But either way...

They look forward to getting used to it.