When Teddy was nineteen and a half, he thought he was broken.
Bren and Tilda loved each other, and he understood that. They had moved in together after the last time his parents' shop had burned, taking him with so he'd stay out of trouble. They took the bedroom upstairs, a small affair with barely enough room for a bed for two, and in the mornings they would kiss while Tilda made breakfast and Bren outlined their work for the day on the chalkboard they used to track printing in the shop. Teddy hadn't thought to mind about it, that his sister preferred women. It had never occurred to him that he could mind. It wasn't his business, and they were happy, the three of them.
Then Saf had come. In most ways, Teddy was glad of it. Saf had become the friend he wanted, a confessor and confidant, full of ideas. With Saf, they were able to transform their small-scale resistance to whomever was suppressing information into something meaningful, returning what they could to rightful owners. It was, he told Saf, like the fairy tale where the man stole from the rich to give to the poor. Saf had never heard of it. Teddy supposed that was what happened when you grew up on a boat full of sailors and without books.
But Saf had also brought with him confusion, because he liked everyone and he wasn't private about it the way Bren and Tilda seemed to be. Saf would kiss a man as soon as hit him, and often both, and he flirted and touched just as happily with women. Teddy watched in slow-growing fascination and horror, which worsened when he realised it wasn't just Saf. People did this, this messy and complicated and unappealing thing.
He couldn't understand it. Thinking that it must be something that was better to do than watch, like reading, he had tried kissing girls, and then boys, even Saf-who seemed amused but not hurt when Teddy pulled away from it with a definite frown. None of it was even fun.
It was, of course, a book that rescued him, years later. The Lady Queen had granted access to her library, permanent and open, as long as he would reprint anything he borrowed-a deal he was glad to keep. In a book about human anatomy and physiology, which had become quite a trouble to reprint because of the illustrations, he found a word that stuck: asexual. He tried it aloud, the feel of it in his mouth more sensual than any kissing had ever been.
Over days, the word slowly grew, taking root in his mind until its depths filled him. He spoke about it with his sister, who seemed thoroughly unimpressed. ("You didn't know that was an option? Oh, Teddy. Sometimes you just confuse me.") Madlen had laughed, and hugged him. ("Me, too, you know.") The Lady Queen had smiled, and told him she'd known that ages ago.
He might have felt a little bit dim, but at least he no longer felt broken.