cw: major gender dysphoria (I told y'all I didn't forget), and very mild, ingrained noncisphobia. Skip to "Have to get some repairs done." to skip the gender dysphora, and skip the paragraph after things went on as usual to skip the noncisphobia.

My eyes shot open, a scream caught in my throat, instinctively choking it down before it sent the girls running. I stared at my ceiling, panting-

My ceiling? My room's ceiling.

That's not- something's not-

"ICHIGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

My door burst open. Pure instinct made me roll off my bed, just in time to miss Dad flying over my head. There was a painful-sounding crash as he slammed against my windowsill.

I lay on the floor, panting. This was—wrong. The arm cushioning me felt too thick. My legs were too thin, too long. There was a space between my arms where my breasts should be squished together with the way I was curled-

"Shit."

"Now, now, what kind of way is that to greet a morning?" Dad demanded, peeking over the edge of the bed.

"Not now, Dad!" My voice snapped out, louder than I intended. We both tensed; me listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Dad—

Dad with a worried, confused look on his face, that same lost, frustrated look he had after mom died and I was still trying to-

Shit. Shit.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. But when I glanced back, all I saw was Dad adjusting his grip on the bed. "I'll go help Yuzu prepare breakfast," he blurted, then bolted out the door.

I let my head fall limply to the floor. Thank fuck, I thought, and immediately felt bad. Worse, I mean. Felt bad on top of how bad I already felt. Dad does his best. I knew that. It didn't mean he was perfect.

I staggered to my feet and flopped onto my bed. I curled up, wrapping my arms around my pillow and burying my face in it. I gripped the pillow with everything I had, because the last time I had given in to the irrational urge to rub my skin until it felt right, it had taken days to heal and put the worst expression on my family's face yet.

So. No scratching.

I stayed on my bed and tried to focus on the feeling of my blanket against my face, and the warmth of the early morning sun on my back. I fought to ignore the feeling of my chest being too flat, of the extra bit between my legs, of-

I was gasping into my pillow. I bit my lip and tried again. Breathing, right? Shouldn't be so hard. Even when my body felt fuzzy, and all I wanted to do was crawl away from this wrong feeling, except I couldn't, because it would crawl with me. It is me. No, it isn't. Fuck.

Five minutes (an eternity) later, I heard a knock on my door. "Ichi-nii?" Yuzu asked softly.

I shifted my face enough to be able to talk. "Yeah?" I croaked.

"Is it one of those days?"

I blessed every heaven and hell out there for my sister. I loved Dad, and I loved Karin, but all three of us would agree that Yuzu was on a different level altogether. "Yeah." Sorry.

She heard what I wasn't saying just fine. "It's okay! I left your bento on the table. Karin-chan and I can walk to school on our own." Her tone brightened. I could see her kind smile behind my closed eyelids.

Silence. Then: "I'll see you later?"

I grunted. She took that for the yes it was supposed to be, and left. I heard Karin pipe up right before Yuzu would've gone downstairs.

Okay, so maybe my sisters were even, in terms of existing on a different level of purity and goodness. Not that I'd ever tell Karin that.

When I felt ready to get up (when the feeling of not being right in my skin got too unbearable to keep still) I staggered downstairs. I could hear Dad in the clinic, talking in low tones. I didn't hear anyone else, so it was probably a call.

There was breakfast waiting for me on the table. It was omelette on rice — not yet omurice; Yuzu still had trouble keeping the egg whole when she tried to stuff it with rice — with a smiley cat face in ketchup. Beside it was my bento, lovingly wrapped in blue cloth patterned with fish streamers. It was the perfect design for the firstborn and only son of the family. No matter Yuzu's good intentions, I flinched anyway.

I didn't have an appetite, but I forced myself to eat. There was only one thing I could do to get through a day like this, and I would need that meal when I got to it. I rewrapped my bento in neutral white, and headed back upstairs.

I opted out of a shower and changed clothes as fast as I could. I kept my gaze on my cabinet and not on the hands that pulled clothes over the parts of me that felt wrong, wrong-

I snatched my bag, shoved in a towel and extra clothes, and thumped down the stairs. "Dad, I'm off," I yelled. I heard him answer through the clinic door as I left the house.

Outside, the Yukimuras' grandmother looked at me askance. I stiffened. Was it my loose shirt? My baggy sweatpants? Were my shoulders too broad, or my jaw too sharp-

"Shouldn't you be in school, Ichigo-kun?" she said pointedly.

Or it was because I was skipping class.

"Have to get some repairs done." My shoulders rose of their own accord to meet my ears. "Dad's too busy. See you around, Yukimura-san." I didn't wait for her to reply; just walked off as fast as I could without looking like I was running away. It's not like it's the first time someone's caught me leaving the house in casual clothes on a weekday. My reputation for being a delinquent didn't grow from just me fighting off the local gangs.

The train to Naruaki City took twenty minutes. Thankfully, the rush hour had come and gone. The last thing I needed right now were people staring at me, staring past me, pressing against me-

I stared at the houses that whizzed by, watching them change into buildings that bocked out the sky. Though there weren't enough people to crowd me, I pressed myself against the wall next to the train doors, as if the cold plastic could distract me from the buzz under my skin.

Technically, I grew up in Ichigo's- in this body. At least I think so. Memories of the time before our mother's death were blurry. Like pieces of a dream, or false memories of events people told me about that I don't actually remember. Like I was watching through someone else's eyes.

After I, ah, 'woke', I had to learn how to move again. It was like finding myself in a heavy flesh bag a third of my old size and twice as clumsy. The first few weeks left me tripping over thin air, constantly misjudging my reach. Adults attributed it to Mom's death. I didn't know whether to be thankful or not.

The only thing that could help me was exercise. I needed to relearn my body. I had to learn how to walk again, how to run, how to jump and kick, and how to move without falling on my face. I needed to move, to push myself until I couldn't feel anything but tired. Two days after Mom died was the first panic attack of many. Some days I couldn't even bring myself to leave my room.

Karate was a good way of relearning how my body moved, but after the third day of looking up hopefully only to find no Mom waiting to bring me home, I had to quit. Tatsuki was sad, but she understood and didn't put up much of a fuss.

After I turned twelve and my growth spurt started, I realized the gym wasn't enough to keep me mildly coordinated and standing. I had to go somewhere that involved movement, not just running or pushing weights that left space for thoughts to filter in. I couldn't go back to the dojo… but I managed to find solace in a nearby dance studio instead.

Mary-san's Studio was on the second floor of a small building a few streets away from Naruaki station. I found it through a poster pinned to the announcement board outside Kamakura station. Someone must have gotten off at every stop along the line just to advertise it.

The poster advertised classes in many American dance styles, with a set schedule open to anyone who wanted to join. I quickly discovered that the studio wasn't restricted to just that. Miss Mary kept it open all day, encouraging kids to drop by in-between her classes to just hang around or dance. Her philosophy was that it was better for kids to play truant in her studio, than outside on the streets.

Good thing said kids liked dancing. Even if it meant being forced to speak in English.

(Miss Mary could speak fluent Japanese. Her excuse for the English-only rule was, it kept the truants from missing out too much from school.)

I climbed the stairs at the side of the building and pushed open the door. Miss Mary looked up from her stretches and gave me a knowing look. I sent her a crooked smile and bobbed my head in a silent greeting. There were a couple other guys in the room — a skinny high school senior named Shimada, and a boy at his side that I hadn't seen before. In another corner was a spray-tanned girl named Sunny, because of the way she liked painting the tips of her bleached hair orange. They waved at me, while the new guy just nodded.

"The class for locking just finished," Miss Mary said, getting to her feet. Her curly blonde hair swung from its high ponytail. Standing straight, she was an inch or two taller than me. She looked young enough to be in her thirties, but moved with a casual grace and confidence that spoke of years of experience. "You can have the floor until ten, then it's time for B-boy."

Something eased between my shoulder blades. B-boy involved doing a lot of tricks with your body, from backflips to handstands to spins. It would take focus, just to make sure I didn't hurt myself or anyone around me. I've kicked someone in the face before.

"Sure," I agreed. She beamed at me. Someday, she'll ask me how I got so good at speaking her language, and I'll have to make up an answer on the spot. But for now, I dumped my things to the side and began to stretch. Soft pop music filtered through the speakers as I bent towards the polished floor.

"Icchi!" I flinched, then looked up as a slim girl with her dark hair in curly pigtails slipped through the door bounced over to me. She paused and put a hand over her face, eyes wide. "Oops. Bad day?" she asked, her voice lower.

"Fumio," I said, trying for a wan smile. "Or… it's Fumi-chan today, isn't it?"

She… he? beamed, twirling in place and sending her yellow crop top flaring over her pink undershirt. "Do you like my new wig?" she asked, fluffing it proudly.

"Looks good," I admitted. She preened. The new guy stared, until Shimada nudged him with an elbow and laughed, murmuring something under the music. Fumi ignored them.

"You always know how to make a girl feel good," she said, tossing her hair back. She settled down beside me and began mimicking my movements, stretching her legs with a flexibility that made me feel old. Coming from someone physically a teenager, that said a lot.

I rolled my eyes, bit back the first reply that came to mind, and retorted, "All I did was agree with you."

"Exactly." She grinned at me. I couldn't stop the small smile that brought to my lips. That only made her grin wider.

I've known Fumio for a year now, and I still didn't know what to make of him. At first, he was just a normal boy a year below me; tall enough to reach my shoulder and enthusiastic and friendly. I didn't pay him much mind — there are plenty of enthusiastic and friendly kids that go into a dance studio. What made him stand out was the fact that he stuck to me. Me, who spent my time in the studio being pleasant but distant, considering I generally went here when I was miserable.

And then he entered class in a skirt and a ponytail.

We almost didn't recognize him. He'd put on make-up too, and contacts to make his eyes look bigger. He looked every inch like a girl his age. A girl who referred to herself as "Fumi-chan."

I was dumbfounded. Part of me took one look at the skirt and thought, he should have gone with a different color. Another part of me wanted to stride up to him and demand what the hell was he thinking, dressing up like that.

There were people who did that. Several of the older boys had walked over, leering and mocking him in turn. The girls had giggled behind their hands, while others cooed over his make-up. And all the while, Fumio — Fumi-chan — kept her chin up and acted just as enthusiastic and mischievous as usual, except maybe with a slight tilt to her hips. Miss Mary shut up the fuss soon after, tugged on Fumio's wig to straighten it, and ordered us back to practice. Fumi planted herself in her usual spot next to me, and things went on as usual.

It seemed more like a hobby for him; I mean, it wasn't like he went as a girl to every dance practice. Why he picked a hobby that turned him into a target for teasing, I wouldn't know, but at least the studio's kids didn't seem to take it too seriously, so I… ended up just playing along. Who was I to judge what he wanted to wear? And if I sometimes watched Fumi leave with something I refused to examine sitting heavy in my gut, well… no one else had to know.

"Let's try the choreography from last time," Fumi suggested. I nodded, glad for every moment I didn't have to speak. She headed towards the radio, greeting Miss Mary on the way. Soon enough, the pop music changed into something familiar with a heavy beat. I breathed out and rolled my shoulders. The thrumming bass was… soothing, in a way, like a vibration on my skin to match the buzzing underneath.

To my right, I saw Shimada perk up. "Hey, is this what we were working on last week?" he asked, walking over.

"Yeah! Let's try adding more today," Fumi said, joining us at the center. She hopped from foot to foot, priming herself up. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "If we finish fast enough, we can join that competition over at Mirai Center!"

Shimada snorted. "You wish, Fujisaki."

The fact that we hung around the studio in-between classes didn't mean we spent our time lazing about. The difference between dancing and going to the gym was that dancing wasn't just about the exercise — it was about having fun. So Miss Mary's kids (her words, not mine) would spend those free hours trying out new moves, staging small, casual dance battles, and brainstorming random choreography together that would never see the light of day.

Fumi was just… ambitious.

Shimada turned to his friend, who was still standing awkwardly off to the side. "Come on, Kenta. Try this out with us. It's fine if you can't keep up, we're just experimenting and shit."

"I told you I didn't come here to embarrass myself," Kenta muttered. He shuffled over though, avoiding my gaze and side-eyeing Fumi on the way.

"You'll be fine. You should have seen Kurosaki on his first day." I rolled my eyes at Shimada's good-natured jab. He grinned, walking past me to take his position in front. "What, you scared of a mirror, Kenta?"

"Shut up!"

"Sunny-chan, you coming?" Fumi waved her over. Sunny shook her head, and held up her earphones.

"I'm gonna practice by myself for now," she said, putting them on. "You guys go ahead."

"Okay!" Fumi turned to Miss Mary and held up her hands in a cutesy plea. "Mary-san, please…?"

Miss Mary smiled and walked over to the radio. We positioned ourselves in a rough square, leaving enough space so we didn't whack each other in the face but not really aiming for a particular formation. "Ready?" she called.

"Yes!"

The music switched, back to the start. One, two, and… I threw my hands up, and began to dance.

I didn't look at the mirror. Bad dancer's habit, but checking my poses and whether I was doing it right was for days when I could stand to look at myself and see broad shoulders and a different face. Instead, I focused on the beat drilling into my bones, the pull and stretch of my muscles as I jerked my shoulders to the side and slowly bent my knees, only to jerk back into movement again. I looked at Shimada in front of me when I didn't know what to do next, and fell back to whatever moves came to mind during the parts we decided would be freestyle. By the end of it, Fumi was whooping and even Kenta had a hesitant grin on his face.

"Again, again!" Fumi demanded. Shimada shot her an incredulous look, panting.

"Shouldn't we think of what's coming next first? I thought you wanted to continue the choreography." He brushed his wet bangs back.

"We can make it up as we go!"

"What the fuck, Fujisaki?"

"I thought this was a dance studio, not a comedy bar," Kenta noted, wiping the sweat off his face. Miss Mary laughed at that.

"One more run, then you guys can figure out the choreography," she said. She pressed the back button, and the music started again.

—

We have lunch standing up in a small alleyway beside the dance studio. After that, it was back inside for more classes, and losing myself to the beat of the music and the exhaustion catching up to me. Waving a goodbye to Fumi when she left early — "Gotta change before I get home, you know how it is…" — drilled in just how much my limbs felt like noodles and how I was ready to drop into bed and sleep. I was going to be sore tomorrow, I just knew it.

By the time I was on the train home, the sun was turning orange in the sky. There were more people on the train than earlier, but it was fine. It's almost funny how there was a little pocket of space around me, as I stayed tucked in my little corner by the door.

I didn't stink! I had a change of clothes, alright, and a towel to keep me from looking like a rat drowned in my own sweat to boot. But no deodorant can keep the smell of sweat off your skin and hair after a long day dancing.

Honestly, the funny part was how grateful I was for the space it gave me.

I stepped out onto the station and began walking home. The dancing had done its job — I felt like I was walking in my own skin again, instead of a few inches behind. The fuzzy sickness was muted under the louder aches and pains of muscles pushed too far.

But there was still something… something niggling at the back of my mind. Something didn't feel right, but it wasn't my body- it wasn't me. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out the feeling that I was missing something. I didn't realize I'd gotten home until I found myself frowning at our front door.

With a sigh, I pushed it open. "I'm home…"

"ICHIGO!"

I sidestepped, only to blink as I found no Dad flying out the door. Instead, he leaned outside, his lips stretched in a grin so wide I immediately put my guard up. Dad never looked that gleeful. Ever.

Except when he's talking about—

"Why didn't you tell me you had such a cute girl for a classmate?" he demanded.

Orihime? But Dad already knew Orihime-

Orihime. Sunset-colored hair flying in front of me as somebody screamed-

I ducked under Dad's outstretched arm and stepped inside. Yuzu caught me at the genkan, kicking my shoes off. She sighed in relief. "Oh, good. I was going to tell Dad not to attack you today." She stepped inside, gesturing to the dining table. "Your friend is waiting!"

I looked over her shoulder, and locked eyes with Rukia.

Rukia, in my school's uniform, in my house, sipping tea.

She beamed at me. "Ah, Kurosaki-san!" she said, her voice two octaves higher and sugary sweet. "I just came by to drop off the work you missed in class today. May I have a word with you in private?"

Blood. My arm, freezing-cold-turning-numb. A maw filled with an abyss of hunger insatiable, and a multi-layered voice howling insanity and sorrow.

And Rukia, sitting at my dining table with a saccharine smile.

"Oh no," I said. "I am not dealing with you today."

A/N: It be like that, Ichigo ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I'm so sorry Ichigo is kinda noncisphobic here. She was cis in her previous life and I figured, hey, you know, just because you get reincarnated in a boy's body doesn't mean you know everything! And idk this gives her room for character development? It's more dynamic? No one is perfect? Hashtag character depth? Im dying of anxiety pls have mercy on me

Also remember this is like, 2004, ish, back when the internet wasn't everywhere and smartphones didn't exist yet (fuck I feel old). I don't think Ichigo even thought of googling being trans or other expressions of gender. She probably thinks she's special or something (wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiink)

Remember, feedback is absolutely 100% appreciated! Research can only take me so far. If something doesn't feel right to you, don't be afraid to tell me. Thanks!