A.N. Posting up multiple one-shots separately can get irritating for readers so I thought for my Beckdam kicks, I'd place most of the one-shots here. Yup. The inspiration for this one came from me rediscovering my Coldplay playlist in some obscure folder in my computer. I am lame but what else is knew? Eagerly awaiting inevitable Beckdam. Read, enjoy, and review!
Fix You.
His eyes are closed and his arms are crossed across his chest, back against the door. He cornered you into the stage props closet and you can't help but nervously pick at the script in your hands. A minute passes, but still he remains ever so quiet. A faint sigh escapes him and you have to stop yourself from ripping the script into pieces. You're so anxious.
"What are you trying to do to me?"
Tired. He sounds tired, too tired. You almost want to push aside all the prop boxes resting on the small mattress in the corner of the closet and tuck him in. It reminds you of your parents, who would pray for hours at their bedside until you wanted nothing more than to toss them onto the bed and force them to sleep. They would always look so lethargic the morning after that you would frequently shake your head and mutter to yourself, "I should've." You never did, though.
"Fix you."
You try to keep your voice warm and your words simple. He's a nice kid. It's just that he was made a girl, so why was he parading around like he was a boy? It's a shame, you think, because the lengthy conversations you held with the boy only furthered your belief that if he wasn't acting against his natural inclinations and walking around like a gender confused freak show, he could have been your best friend. You two could have been close.
"Trust me, I'm fixing myself just fine."
He mutters, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small vial of some foreign liquid. You squint to get a better view of it, but the print is so small and your vision can only be so good.
"It's testosterone. I'm fixing myself. God made a mistake and I'm fixing it for him. You're welcome, God."
He continues, and the dry humor doesn't go unnoticed by you. At his words, you feel livid. Trying your best to not feel offense, you squeeze out the next words with difficulty.
"God doesn't make mistakes."
Raising his eyebrow at you, his lips curl to a slight smirk and you want to slap it off him.
"He doesn't!"
"Yeah, well, you seem to forget about me."
"You're not a mistake."
You're getting defensive now, and your voice is rising. You don't want to start anything with this boy; he's been your biggest supporter in this school. Whenever that Eli boy you've been forced to work with yelled at you, he always managed to calm the guy down. He's always been gentle with you and you've always felt this weird flutter in your stomach and your steps around him. Still, you hate how he's trying to oppose your beliefs, beliefs you've held dear since you were born.
"Oh, no, I'm not the mistake. Only the gender aspect of me is. But like I said before, I'm fixing it."
"God does not make mistakes! The way you were born was the way he intended you to be!"
"So how are you going to "fix me," huh? I'd like to know."
"I can open your eyes. I can make you see it's not a mistake and you're supposed to be this. The way you were born is not the mistake. This Adam thing is the mistake."
"Look."
He's sighing and you can hear anger rising in his voice.
"You might have had it easy or maybe you've had it rough. I'm not here to judge you and tell you my life is this huge hole of hell or something. But I've lived all of my life thinking of myself like you did… this Adam guy was this huge mistake and it came to a point where I wanted to fix myself. I tried, you know. Fixing myself. I wanted to fix Adam for Gracie."
"And?"
You're waiting for him to continue.
"And the doctors said I was lucky I survived."
Quiet.
"And then I learned I'm not the mistake. Gracie was. And I can fix Gracie. I can get rid of as much as her as possible with testosterone, with surgery. But Adam? He's not the mistake. He's me. I can't get rid of him even if I wore dresses and put on nail polish and dated boys. And if I want to fix Adam, I can't do it alive, because I am Adam. This brain is Adam. This life is Adam. This soul is Adam. This heart is Adam. I am Adam."
Another silence.
"If you want to fix me… If you want to get rid of Adam, you're better off grabbing a gun and shooting me dead."
"God doesn't make mistakes."
You're whispering now, because you don't know what else to say.
"Maybe you're right."
Looking up in shock, you watch as he thoughtfully taps his chin, deep in thought.
"Maybe we're looking at this wrong. I mean, think of people born with disabilities. Was it a mistake? Or an obstacle. I mean, a lot of people with disabilities went above and beyond, right? And people born into desolate homes or with terrible monetary problems. Were they God's mistakes? A lot became successful. Maybe God meant for me to be born this way, you know. Maybe the mistake is in society and its views. This body is my disability, my broken home. My body needs to be fixed, yeah, but so does your way of thinking, Becky."
You're quiet as he leans back against the door, grinning sadly at you. For a few quiet moments, you stare at him, analyzing. Long hair, frilly dress, makeup… it just doesn't look right on him. Sighing, you blink and stare at him again. He's not the most rugged looking boy you've ever met; his hair is always neatly waxed to the side and his clothing is proper and trim. His posture isn't particularly upright and he never really gives off an air of unbound masculinity. But you can't help think he's still handsome.
"Okay. Then maybe you're not a mistake. Maybe you're just broken."
"Is there really a difference?"
His voice drops low and he looks away from you, displeased. You've heard stories about him before; he was the talk of the halls a little under a year ago. He'd been through a lot and you somehow feel a twang of regret for confronting him like this. God wasn't particularly a hateful guy. Maybe that's how you were coming off, though.
"God doesn't hate you."
You whisper, standing up and walking a few feet away from him.
"Well, he sure has a funny way of showing me how much he loves me. These past few years have been nothing but trouble for me, you know. I've been broken, yeah. Plenty of times. My body's been broken, my mind's been broken, and my heart's been broken. It's nothing new."
He turns and his eyes are staring right into yours, but they're different, soft. You're lost for a few seconds for you've never really met eyes quite like his. Eyes filled with no animosity, no judgment. Instead, they're confused, hurt, and right in the center of it all, loving, and you've never felt this urge to disappear before.
"Maybe you should just give me a chance to try. You know, fixing you."
"You can't."
"I can't fix your body like you plan to. I can't fix your mind because I can barely tell what you're thinking. But I can try fixing your heart."
"I already told you that God can't fix this."
Anger flares up in his beautiful eyes, but you still can't detect a trace of hatred. You're surprised how lithe he is when he grabs your hand, a hand you didn't realize was resting on his shoulder, and pushes it away. He's mad but you're desperate now.
"I didn't say God. I said me."
Your voice cracks a little and you're scared because what you're about to do could potentially get God really mad at you. Well, at least that's what your pastor always taught, but you're not particularly sure because you, personally, don't think he'd get mad over something so simple as-
Grabbing his shoulders, you pull yourself towards him and gently, your lips fall upon his. Something sparks inside of you when he slowly responds to your kiss and you feel giddy, almost. This is different, you think, because you thought you'd feel disgusting, sinful. Whenever you did anything bad, you'd always hear the lingering whispers of "this is wrong" but this time, you can't. You try but you just can't.
-as love.
You pull away and fall into his embrace, and in the quiet, you whisper.
"Will this fix you?"
You imagine he's smiling as he pulls in closer to you.
"It just might."
And all you can taste is his lips.