021 - Trade
Larxene Carlisle
They made the decision to trade when they were just twelve years old.
The two children, nearly identical twins, had been brought up good and proper by a couple who were not their parents, taught to respect the values of society like all good citizens. These they were both happy to follow in work, rest and play, bar a few minor mishaps that were of course forgiveable because they were still only young.
Except, as the two of them found out as they grew older and became not androgynous children but a young man and a young woman, when it came to the values of gender.
In this society, tradition ruled fast and strong - the boys went to school, the men had the jobs, the men did the dirty work. The women stayed at home, looked after the children and the house, catered for their hard-working husbands.
Larxene, every time she was stuffed into another flowery dress, loathed this. For her, her life was planned out from the word go just because of her gender - a man could become an academic, a mathematician, and inventor, a farmer, anything under the sun. But a woman had to stay at home in impractical dresses and cook and clean until the day grew old.
This knowledge gave her a sulky demeanour every morning as she watched her brother struggle into his smart blazer and cap for school, looking equally miserable. And when he came home one day and burst into tears because he didn't understand anything, and he didn't want to be a boy any more, and he wished he was a girl because then he could wear pretty things and make pretty things and nobody would shoot him down, it set Larxene thinking.
A shaved head and a lot of trouble later, nobody could tell the two children apart. Nobody realised that the brighter Vexen who excelled in every class and looked so smart in his school uniform was actually Larxene. And likewise, no one ever suspected that the Larxene - her hair now falling well past her shoulders once more - who flounced with the mansion's maids and flirted with the guards outside was actually none other than Vexen.
And that was how it had been ever since. Vexen grew to be a somewhat flat-chested but nonetheless attractive woman, and Larxene became a skilled engineer, nimble fingers perfect for tweaking the complex machinery that she worked on.
They moved out of town when they were both eighteen, suitcases packed and Larxene, ironically, under orders to take good care of her sister until she found herself a good, respectable husband. Vexen made good friends with all the women in the small town where they settled down, and kept the house and garden in perfect order for his sister. Larxene, in Vexen's name, began a successful business selling and repairing motor engines.
It was sort of sad, though, Larxene thought as she bound her chest flat and added a thick layer of padding beneath a shirt patched a dozen times over by Vexen, and pulled on her breeches, because now everything was set in motion and it would never be possible to stop it. They were only half identical twins, after all, but now they were older they had both changed so much they were impossible to mistake for one another. If she were to fall in love with a man, Larxene knew that there would be no admitting her true gender. And if Vexen suddenly found himself in wanting of a wife, no woman would take him. So young, they had forsaken love for social comfort and a more suiting lifestyle.
But, she thought as a young woman caught her eye one morning on the way to her workshop, that wouldn't have mattered anyway because Larxene truly thought like a man - is she wanted a partner, she wanted one who was pretty and curvy and innocent. And Vexen, she realised, was similar. He looked at men. Dreamed of them.
But it was an impossible dream. Both of them must have known that the moment they traded, so many years ago.
Marluxia Harcèlle
It had been a hard winter for both of them. Political unrest was spreading through France like a beast; food and jobs were scarce. The trade sector had all but broken down, industrial manufacture brought to a standstill by a lack of raw materials and buyers of France's increasingly outdated technologies. So Marluxia Harcèlle had made the decision to take his cousin Naminé L'Aile across the channel on a paddle ferry to England before they both starved in the metal fields. It hasn't been an easy one; neither of them knew what would await in this new country and neither of them had much of a grasp on the English language. But they arrived in London, the Floating City, in October all the same, and found work to last them through the winter. Come spring, they moved east, and finally settled in a little town called Radiant Garden where Marluxia found a job out in the fields and Naminé proved herself useful running odd errands and ferrying goods back and forth between the local populace.
Marluxia first met the curious woman calling herself Larxene Carlisle on a journey that Naminé had sent him on to deliver spare parts to the house of a man named Vexen. That was half an hour ago, and Marluxia, loathe as he was to admit it, was lost. What he had been sure was Hawethorne lane now appeared to be the middle of nowhere, and Marluxia was hot and tired and thirsty. The damned box - and whatever was inside it - was heavy, and the sun was high in the sky, creating mirages on the rocky cobblestones of the road. So, sighing heavily to himself, he set the box down, pulled away his cotton shirt now damp and dirty from sweat, and crouched in what little shade there was by the hedge at the side of the road.
"Merde..."
A few minutes later his eyes picked out a vague shape in the distance, quickly approaching. A person on horseback. Marluxia, not wanting to offend, quickly replaced his shirt in time for a strikingly beautiful woman to trot up, bareback, on an oversized Shire. Her silken dress billowed in the wind and so did her golden hair, the subject of old paintings and ethereal inspiration for the great artists of this day and age.
Marluxia stood abruptly as she stopped and dismounted. She was tall, but nonetheless elegant, composed and very, very attractive.
"Good afternoon, stranger. What brings you here? Nothing lies this way but Hawethorne Cottage."
Marluxia pointed to the crate lying absently on the floor.
"I am on a delivery," He explained, accent still thick even after six months in England. "To a Monsieur Vexen Carlisle?"
"That would be my brother," The lady commented. "I am his sister, Larxene."
Marluxia nodded.
"My name is Marluxia Harcèlle." He said, thinking to wipe his hands on his breeches before he extended it for the mistress before him. She politely ignored it, and curtsied instead.
"From France?"
"The country has grown..." Marluxia scrabbled for the word, and found none. "Dangereuse."
"Political unrest," Miss Carlisle intoned dully. "One reads about that sort of thing in the papers a lot."
"Oui."
She nodded her head in the direction of the opposite way that she had come.
"I can take you to Hawethorne Cottage."
"Merci, Mademoiselle." Marluxia said with a flicker of a twinkle in his eye. "It is much appreciated."
"Oh, stop it with the French," Miss Carlisle insisted. "I do have a name, you know."
Marluxia simply smiled to himself and turned the name over in his mind. Larxene Carlisle. Well, Larxene Carlisle was a beautiful woman indeed. Which was odd because, as far as he could remember, Marluxia had never been interested in women before. But there was something very odd indeed about this particular one.
It took quite a few months, and a lot of flirting, for Marluxia to work out precisely what.
Vexen Carlisle
The heat of summer was always the worst time for a man pretending to be a woman. During this season all the young ladies truly showed off their gorgeous curves in single layered skirts and billowing, cool robes, but Vexen couldn't risk that sort of exposure and had to stay covered in modest, full length dresses all year around. He made excuses enough with a wide brimmed, floppy hat - his pale skin burned too easily - but still it was always a little disheartening to see the young ones dance and play in the meadows. He stayed with the older, married women, and gossiped as he mended Larxene's ever-ruined clothes.
There were other problems, too. Namely men. Specifically Marluxia Harcèlle.
The man seemed absolutely fascinated by Vexen's modest beauty and shy personality, which was all very well and wonderful, but Vexen doubted that he'd ever react well to finding out that the object of his affections was not actually a lovely young Mademoiselle, as he liked to say, but nothing less than a man. An effeminate one, granted, but a man nonetheless. Larxene had been mentioning a Miss L'Aile recently too, and Vexen understood the pain - those sorts of things could never be because no matter how perfect Larxene and Vexen were at pretending to be each other, when stripped down and bared their very bodies were the things to fail them.
It was August, the beginning of Autumn harvest, when Vexen found Marluxia knocking at his door with a bunch of flowers in his hands and a hopeful smile on his face.
"Bonjour, ma belle Mademoiselle,"
He'd blushed, ushering Marluxia inside.
"Don't flatter me, young man."
Marluxia laid the flowers on the table in the kitchen, smiling absently.
"I don't call it flattery."
Vexen shook his head, idly fiddling with a stray lock of his hair. It was curled, as always - it looked more effeminite that way, helped to hide his angular cheekbones and sinewey neck when thrown over one shoulder.
"Tea?"
"If you please."
Vexen busied himself with brewing two cups, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Marluxia. The man visited frequently these days, for one reason or another - either deliveries for one of Larxene's pet projects, or because he had an afternoon free and nowhere else to go. Vexen, of course, kept perfect the illusion of being Larxene, and forced himself not to return any of Marluxia's affections, no matter how much he desired to get to know the man more intimately. He couldn't afford that kind of scandal.
"So what brings you here this time?"
Marluxia chuckled a little and leaned against the counter so that he could look Vexen in the eye.
"Tu."
"... Me?"
"Oui."
Vexen allowed himself to smile a little, and reached over to adjust the brass pipes on the side so that the water wouldn't whistle as it flowed from the taps.
"What really brings you here?"
"You're not like other women," Marluxia commented flippantly, tracing patterns on the marble counter. Vexen felt himself freeze, just a little, beneath his carefully padded costume.
"Oh?"
"I do not have the slightest interest in other femmes," Marluxia continued, catching Vexen's gaze again. "There are so many in this town; jolie, intéressante, vivante... but none like you. You are a femme fatale, Larxene Carlisle."
Vexen swallowed thickly and set himself up to take the fall. He couldn't do what he wanted, and that was say yes; no doubt Marluxia would propose and on their wedding night...
"And I find myself-" Marluxia said thoughtfully, catching Vexen's chin between his forefinger and thumb, "Falling for you."
Vexen smiled ruefully and turned back to the tea.
"You know I cannot make that kind of commitment, Marluxia."
"Why not?" Marluxia instantly challenged.
"My brother needs me," Vexen said, the first excuse that came to his mind. "I need to look after the house and cook for him."
"I think it is high time that your brother found himself a wife so that I may have you for my own," Marluxia stated, prising Vexen's hands from the teacups and turning him, pressing him against the counter. Vexen felt his whole body react like electrocution to Marluxia's sudden close proximity, and willed himself to stay calm, react sensibly, and get Marluxia away. Even if he had to break the man's heart, it was safer than chancing his finding out about the truth.
Marluxia leaned forwards, and suddenly Vexen was acutely aware that even if he looked like he had breasts from the fabric pads in his dress, there was no cotton or silk that could actually have the same consistency of the correct anatomy. Marluxia would realise.
"Ma Mademoiselle."
Vexen opened his mouth to speak, prepared to push Marluxia away, but the man spoke again.
"Or should I say mon Monsieur?"
This time the tensing was not of arousal but horror. In nine years of wearing dresses and living a woman's life, nobody had ever called Vexen up on his true gender. Marluxia, now, was like a blow to the stomach. He and Larxene would be ruined. They'd have to move on, find a new life elsewhere. Everything would change.
"How long have you known?"
Again Marluxia laughed, deep and rich, and maybe he'd just breathed in but Vexen was sure that he could feel the other man's body press closer. He didn't seem too concerned about such intimacy with another male, but more than likely Vexen was just being hopeful.
"Not so long as one would expect,"
Marluxia's hands fell to Vexen's shielded body, feeling the curve of the fabric and underneath the masculine angles of Vexen's true figure.
"I very much desire to know what you really look like," He stated, and to Vexen it seemed like the word desire seemed to drip with the very emotion it represented. He found himself whimpering a little, trapped between the kitchen counter and a gorgeous, gorgeous man, and no words to describe the twisting feelings curling in his gut.
And Marluxia's hands found his shoulders, found the divide between Vexen's clothing and Vexen's skin, and slid his fingers, so slowly, so tantatisingly, in. Across bony shoulders, arms and a chest flat by design, then down to conveniently wide hips until Vexen stood half naked in the presence of a person who was not his sister for the first time since he was twelve years old, and there were no. Words. To describe.
"Curieux," Marluxia half whispered, half moaned, hands roaming across Vexen's prickling skin, "That you are a homme and I do not care at all."
Vexen closed his eyes and considered it not curieux but a Goddamn miracle.
"What is your true name, mon bel homme?"
Vexen shivered in prising his fingers from the counter to find Marluxia's forearms in a gesture far more modest than the other man. He forced his eyes open, and carefully judged Marluxia's face, just in case his countennance would reveal dishonesty that his voice alone did not. Nothing in his half-lidded eyes and soft smile even hinted at betrayal.
"I am Vexen. Larxene is my sister."
"And she pretends to be you, and you pretend to be her," Marluxia clarified thoughtfully. Vexen searched his eyes again and nodded. Again, a foreign word he only half understood. "Curieux."
Vexen opened his mouth to elaborate but Marluxia stopped him with one finger.
"Say nothing, mon femme fatale," He chuckled, and leaned forwards to press to Vexen's lips a kiss he would never forget.
Naminé L'Aile
Since arriving in Radiant Garden, Naminé L'Aile had found herself acutely aware of every single gorgeous woman in the town. She'd always been this way - not interested in the rugged charms of men, but the perfect, heavenly beauty of women - and this town of English Roses was no exception. All pale as untouched snow, with hair every shade of black, blonde and red under the sun. Naminé was both thankful and jealous. It was not her place to stare at their perfect bodies, but nobody noticed her do so under the brim of her hat; she could fantasise all she liked, but it would never happen.
But, Naminé realised with a jolt one morning when a certain Vexen Carlisle greeted her with a lopsided grin at Hawethorne cottage, there seemed to be just one man that she actually cared to like.
Vexen Carlisle was not a large man by any means. He was the shortest that Naminé knew, but he more than made up for that by his rowdy, wholesome personality and easygoing demeanour. Unlike Larxene, his twin sister, who was shy and introverted, Vexen was boisterous and social, and as Naminé soon found out, wonderful company. There seemed to be a lot of deliveries to his workshop near the centre of town, and after a few weeks, Naminé learned to leave plenty of extra time when delivering to Vexen. She usually sent Marluxia on the long trips back to Vexen and his sister Larxene's house since he appeared to be interested in the woman who lived there, which also had the added advantage of allowing her to spend more time at the work shop with Vexen.
Today the package was tiny, just one spare part for an engine belonging to one farmer that had broken, and Naminé left it until last so that maybe she should watch Vexen mending the machine with his surprisingly delicate fingers. She arrived at the workshop just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, and the door jangled familiarly as she stepped inside.
"Vexen?"
He grasp of English was far more minimal than Marluxia, having always relied on her cousin to translate - but in the past few months she had definitely expanded her vocabulary, mostly in mechanical terms.
There was no reply, so Naminé stepped inside into the dusty room - how desperate its need for a woman's touch here to keep it clean - and looked around.
"Vexen?"
There was a muffled shout from another room, and even Namin had to duck below the arch into a cavernous room filled with a gigantic, smoking machine. She quickly stepped out again, coughing, followed by a sooty Vexen.
"Ah. Naminé. You got that cog I needed, aincha?"
Naminé nodded, trying not to blush in the object of the one man she liked. She supposed that it was Vexen's round face and wide eyes, small hands and small stature, that she liked. He was effeminate, in a way that drew Naminé in.
"Oui."
She passed the parcel to Vexen, who unwrapped it and held the glinting component up to the light.
"Perfect. Tres merci, Naminé."
Naminé laughed at the badly pronounced French and hung expectantly around Vexen. The engineer pulled four shiny silver coins from his pocket and passed them to her.
"Here ya go."
"Merci."
"You got time to chat?"
"Of course."
Vexen patted one of the work benches and Naminé brushed the worst of the dust and wood chippings away to sit.
"So," Vexen said as he pottered about the workshop, heaving out an engine in which to fit the final cog. "You seem to be visiting me a lot."
"J'aime your... company," Naminé said. Vexen smiled to himself, smearing dirt onto his face as he worked. The smell of oil was thick in the air, staining his breeches and apron, and still in the cloggy atmosphere he worked with a precision Naminé admired and envied.
"Is that all?"
"What do you mean?" Naminé asked, finding herself leaning forwards a little. Vexen met her eyes.
"You seem to be rather... doting..." He said simply.
"I do not know that word," Naminé replied apologetically, cocking her head a little. What was this silence suddenly descending on the pair in the workshop? What was this hummingbird flutter in her chest?
"Interested?"
"Non."
"Loving?"
That, Naminé understood. She blushed heavily and let out a nervous giggle, swinging her legs. Vexen sighed, pulling away his gloves and setting his tools down.
"Naminé, I am a woman."
Naminé understood that too. She stared at Vexen - no, not Vexen, that couldn't have been his - her - real name - as realisation and curiosity and amazement dawned.
"It's a secret," The engineer replied, pulling her goggles away from her head and laying those on the table, too. "Secret. Shhh."
Naminé nodded, and slipped from the bench.
"Who are you?" She whispered, reaching up to press a hand to the other woman's chest. Yes - she could feel the bump of a breast beneath tight bindings. It seemed too good to be true. A woman, a woman that she adored, hiding under the pretence of being male? A woman who she considered a close friend and whose name she did not even know.
"I am Larxene."
"Larxene," Naminé repeated. "Who is the woman in your house who is also Larxene?"
"That's my twin brother," Larxene explained. "Brother. Mon frére. Vexen."
Naminé nodded, her mouth forming an o of surprise and realisation. Funny. She'd met the woman not really called Larxene a few times before, and if there was a man hiding beneath those dresses and curled hair and make up, he was very good at disguising himself indeed.
"Je t'aime," She whispered when English words failed her, and Larxene seemed to understand, drawing her into a dirty, oily kiss that Naminé would never forget.
Excuse the poor French. I haven't taken that class for nearly three years. Also excuse any typos.
If anyone's confused, in Naminé and Marluxia's points of view, Larxene is actually Vexen and Vexen is actually Larxene.