"My wife."

Tino felt irked. Why did his traveling companion insist, occasionally, on using those words to describe him? He'd repeatedly requested that Berwald not call him his wife. It wasn't that he found the sentiment particularly degrading- he didn't consider femininity inherently bad, and for most people, he believed being called a feminine name didn't warrant offense- but his particular situation was one in which the nickname hurt.

However, Berwald hadn't an inkling of his words' real effect on Tino; it was apparent he found it funny to tease his friend by calling him 'wife,' and that he thought the young man's protestations both ridiculous and slightly sexist. It grated on Tino that Berwald had likely lost respect for him due to his adamancy that he was not a wife.

"I am nobody's wife. Don't call me that." He wouldn't look at the man striding alongside him.

A hint of sadness crossed Berwald's features. Tino couldn't help but feel a bit ashamed by his negative reaction. The Finnish man was aware of Berwald's affection for him, and knew that jokingly calling him his wife was a way Berwald chose to express those feelings. Tino felt a good deal of adoration towards the Swede in return, and it was his desire to respond in positive ways to his companion, as he hoped to develop a relationship with him; but this, this compromised his sense of self in such a way that he had to refuse to play along. He would not be called a wife.

"Mmm..." said Berwald, stroking his chin. "Married women aren't so bad."

"I just don't like being called a wife, that's all."

Berwald didn't understand why his words upset the young man; Tino had endeavored every day to assure that he couldn't. It had been difficult, even dreadful some days, but he'd managed, so far. Tino wondered how things would be different if he came out to Berwald. Would it take a weight off his shoulders? Well, that it would certainly do, but to reveal those personal details about himself might also serve to drive his companion away. And would it be cruel, knowing the extent of the man's feelings for him? Perhaps it would be kinder to remain a sort of... a sort of distant dream?

No! He told himself, no it would not be cruel, there was nothing wrong with his body, and he shouldn't assume that he was disgusting to other people. He was aware he'd internalized a lot of shame about his figure, and it made him apprehensive whenever he got to thinking about his relationship with the Swede. After all, the warmth between them was mutual, and there was a real chance of something substantial developing between them. But he was so afraid of rejection! He pulled away, and pulled away, whenever he was offered a chance to become closer to the man. At the same time he would be elated by and terrified of his companion. Love would bring him great joy, he knew- a hand to hold, a body to lay beside, lips and neck and together breathing- but there was always a barrier, and that was his own body, the sacred cage within which he huddled and dreamed.

He didn't want to think about it any more. Look, he thought, look how lovely the grass is, in the wind, with the sun upon it! See the way the low beams catch the spines of the individual blades, sweeping along them in an orange-gold glow? How splendid!

...Fuck being transgender.