Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi.
AN: Hello, Internets. Happy 2011. I brought you some fic.
Thanks for the kind reviews and encouragement. Y'all managed to give me 13 of them, therefore surpassing my pathetic "12 reviews, plz" quota. Nice one. So, here is, as promised, part of chapter 2. I know, I know - I hate splitting up chapters, too. It feels... wrong. But, Chapter Two is 25 freakin' pages, guys. 25 PAGES. So, yeah. Here's the first part.
Once again, my betas drevil99 and TwistedRaver knocked this one out of the park. They're the best.
Warnings: drugs, alcohol, self-harm, physical and sexual abuse, foul language, frank discussions of sex and gender, and general ungentlemanly behavior. I WILL fuck with your OTP. Be prepared.
YOU SHOULD PROBABLY READ THIS ONE: So, remember, how in the summary it says "Semi AU"? This is what I meant. THIS DOES NOT TAKE PLACE IN CANON. Some major plot-points are lifted from what we've seen on the show, but the majority of the circumstances surrounding Adam/the Rest of the World are entirely AU. Entirely different backstory, certain character things are tweaked and/or fabricated to suit my purposes. My interpretation of Eli draws heavily on the EPIC ONE-SHOT YOU SHOULD GO READ RIGHT NOW, Oddity by Peaches Naughty Cream. It gave me a nice starting point, since at the beginning I had no idea how to write Eli. I think I was going to write more things here but I forgot.
Okay, you can read the fic now.
Mornings were always the hardest for Adam.
Aside from the obvious reasons (it seemed no matter how early he went to sleep, he was never quite ready to wake up) it was hard because it was nearly always the time of day when he felt most attacked by his own body.
Every time he heard the god awful wail of his alarm clock it felt like a call to battle. When he swung his legs off the side of the bed and planted his feet on the floor of his bedroom he was preparing himself for a full-on assault.
Adam was not okay with his body.
Some days were worse than others, of course; and some days were better. He had moments where he felt like he could almost live with it. Like maybe God hadn't played some awful joke and maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like maybe the journey was even more important than the destination and maybe all of this shit had a reason and maybe he'd end up a better man for all the hardship.
And sometimes he could barely stand the sight of himself in the mirror.
Mornings were the worst because he had to confront himself. The "Man Ritual" (Drew's term; not his) had to be completed each day.
He stood in front of the mirror, fresh from the shower, skin scrubbed bright pink, eyes hot and glassy.
His... breasts were atrocious. He stood in front of the mirror, naked and wet and shaking. He felt hideous. Some kind of freak. Some kind of monster.
The wideness of his hips, the smooth hairless expanse of his arms and legs. The horrible softness of himself.
He wanted to get back under the hot cleansing stream of the shower. He wanted to scrub his skin off. To scour away the flesh from the bone and emerge – a clean, shining skeleton. To have his body grow back, a phoenix over his bones; stronger and right. He wanted to tear off bright red chunks of himself. To be rid of the fucking tumors on his chest once and for all. To reject the poison of himself. To be rebuilt with all the right parts, with his body in working order, to be able to look in the mirror and see the man that he felt like.
Instead he swung open the medicine cabinet, turning his reflection away from him.
He dressed himself in boxers and a tanktop. He slid a baggy pair of Drew's old jeans over his legs and cinched his belt tight at his waist.
He puts the tanktop on first because it's easier than binding over his bare chest.
It took a long time for him to learn to do it on his own without hurting himself. Once, he put the bandages on too tight, left them on too long and bruised his ribs badly. For a while after that, Drew had helped him bind, to make sure that he stayed safe.
Drew was kind of amazing, sometimes.
He knew that bandages were stupid. That doing it that way was dangerous and he was risking pretty serious injury but it wasn't exactly like he was swimming in options.
His mother could barely stand to look him in the eye and call him his name, he didn't even want to imagine the shit-fit she would throw if he were to ask for her help buying a proper binder.
Binding wasn't fun. It was not his favorite...
It was un-fucking-comfortable.
And it could be dangerous.
He's seen the videos on youtube. He's read the warnings. He knew that even with an actual binder he was risking injury by wearing it too long; he knew that by using bandages instead he was pretty much courting injury. He knew about bruising (first hand) and he knew about fluid build up (internet horror stories).
He pinned the bandage down and re-opened the mirror to judge the job he'd done.
The flatness of his chest was a sort of salve to his wounded body image. It wasn't perfect. God, no it wasn't. But it was better. It was the best he could do.
He slipped a white t-shirt on over the tank to hide his bandages and trotted back to his room.
Layers.
He watched a lot of passing videos from guys on the internet and layers was a suggestion that came up time and time again.
He slipped a flannel button-up on over his t-shirt. It was a size big; he'd gotten it at the thrift store. He liked to wear most of his clothing big.
Well, he didn't like it, exactly, but it was necessary.
In truth, he envied his brother. Drew had a good body. A male body. He wore tight tees that showed off his physique and he had confidence and he was strong and good at sports and his voice was so deep.
And Adam wore layers and baggy everything and tried not to talk too much to anyone because the less they noticed you, the less they'd care.
And if no one cared they wouldn't pay attention and as long as they didn't pay attention he could be stealth.
Part of him was sort of amazed at how well he'd been passing at Degrassi. He was proud, but it was a frustrating sort of pride. He couldn't really brag about it to anyone.
Being stealth was... strange. Good. Kind of frustrating.
At his old school he'd never had the option of flying under the radar. He went home for break as Gracie and came back as Adam. Not to mention most of the kids in his high school were people he'd known since he was little.
He shook his head and smoothed his hair in front of the mirror. Thoughts about his old school usually followed a pretty dark path and he tried to avoid going there. It would be especially shitty to have a fucking panic attack before school. He thought of the pills in the back of his sock drawer and rolled his eyes. His psychiatrist had prescribed them to him after the Last Big Fight. To help him feel better, she'd said. To cope. He thought it was ironic and fucked up and just like his whole fucking life that the only thing they did was made him feel like shit. He never took them and about a month after he got them his mom got off his case and he didn't even have to bother faking it.
Christ, there I go again.
He ran hand over his face, as if to physically wipe away the sudden wave of bitterness he felt.
He grabbed his beanie and his backpack and walked back to the bathroom to give himself a final once-over. Satisfied (well, about as satisfied as he could get with the looming specter of dysphoria hanging over his head) with his appearance he crept down the stairs.
A quick glance at the clock told him it was nearly 5:30. He was cutting it pretty close, his mother would be up in about fifteen minutes and the only reason he'd gotten up at this ungodly hour was to slip out of the house without having to deal with anyone. He'd been feeling restless and sick with anxiety for the better part of a week – ever since his confrontation with Fitz after school and the ensuing fight with his mother. They'd been walking on eggshells around each other since the argument. She'd made a few concessions; his favorite meal one night, a considerably gentle homework lecture another. He was cautious to accept the subtle white flag she'd been waving, though. He knew he was one wrong move away from having her back on his ass. Worse yet, he was certain that she would bring up his behavior during their last row the next time they clashed.
Fitz hadn't been too much trouble. He still gave Adam static in the halls but didn't seem to be pushing things too much. Adam was incredibly relieved. The thought of having Fitz really going after him made him want to vomit. If Fitz hated Adam this much now and he didn't know anything about him, how bad would it be if he found out Adam was trans?
Adam slipped into the garage as quietly as he could and grabbed his skateboard, allowing a brief feeling of relief to wash over him. He needed this. A lot. He hadn't really skated much since moving to Toronto and even now just holding his board in his hands in the dark, feeling the familiar scratchy griptape against his fingertips, he felt his body relaxing.
On his way out he jotted a quick note to his mom and left it on the refrigerator.
Wanted to get to school early. Head-start on a project for MI. See you later.
Love,
-Adam
He set off in the general direction of Degrassi at a leisurely pace. The park where he planned to skate wasn't too far from the school. It was still dark out and he hoped that meant he could get in some alone-time with his board before the early joggers showed up and broke his peace.
He felt the delicious resistance of the ground when he kicked off, he felt the jarring drop of each curb, the wobble of his board on the asphalt, the chill of the cold morning air through his hoodie and on his face. He felt the friction of it all.
He felt alive.
The wonderful continuous scrape of his wheels against the pavement made his heart beat faster.
The park was empty, just as he'd hoped. He glanced longingly at the coffee shop across the street, but decided against going in just yet, eager to begin exploring the park he'd so often passed on his way to school. The whole of the park was massive; one corner had a playground for families, there was a small pond for ducks at the other end, there was a fountain and paths for joggers and the grassy green in-betweens were dotted with trees and charcoal grills for picnicking families. He bipassed all of these attractions, instead seeking out the small skatepark set-up at the north end of the park.
It wasn't much to look at; a couple wide concrete stairs, some rails, a quarter pipe, and some shallow ramps. About everything you could expect from the kind of half-assed skateparks cities would build in the hopes of keeping skaters out of parking lots and shopping centers. Still, his heart thumped a bit harder in his chest and there was an ache in his throat when he thought about how much he missed this. He kicked off, riding up the transition on the quarter-pipe. It was small, only about 4 feet, he knew he wouldn't be able to do too much at this park, but he was always more comfortable with street than vert so he supposed it didn't matter.
Familiarizing himself with the shallow dips and sharp edges of the concrete he felt his body relax. Skateboarding was like therapy, only more relaxing and with less bullshit. Here on his board, with the sun just beginning to peak up from behind the clouds and the cold wind nipping his cheeks and nose he allowed himself to loosen up. The board was just an extension of his body and he was surprised at how easily the feeling of oneness came back to him. He'd been skateboarding since he was about 11 and felt like he had a lot to show for the four years of experience he'd gained.
Although he hadn't competed since transition he had once been starting to make a name for himself in the local amateur circuit in St. Catherines. Nothing too big, but he got a write-up in a local paper when he took 3rd in his first skate competition when he was 13. Mostly he competed for fun, but the winning was nice; his three meager trophies were positively dwarfed on the mantle next to Drew's copious sports awards but they were there nontheless.
He sped up and ollied, attempting to land a grind on a low rail across from the stairs. He lost control of the board and bailed, frowning pensively as the board skittered out from under his feet and slid to a stop at the base of the quarter pipe. He retrieved it and hopped back on determined to try it again.
A couple trips up the quarterpipe and a few ollies later he felt comfortable enough to take the rail again. He slowed his breathing and kicked off skated up along the rail.
C'mon, Adam, six months ago you could do this in your sleep.
He slid his rear foot over the tail, his front over the bolts, and propelled himself into an ollie. He embraced the brief moment of weightlessness (and God, how could he have gone this long without it?) and the surprisingly smooth impact of his trucks on the rail, and the controlled slide to lock his rear wheels against the metal; the precarious slide down the rail until he kicked off at the end and landed (albeit a bit sketchily) and rolled down the slope toward the sidewalk.
"God," he found himself laughing, the adrenaline spike causing a grin to split his face.
He'd done far more impressive tricks in the past. By his old standards that short grind off a low rail was child's play, but Christ, the wholeness it brought him. The old, simple, familiar joy of being back on the board, of pulling off a trick (no matter how simple) it brought a wave of pleasant memories back to him.
He remembered practicing on his front lawn every day after school until he perfected ollying. His utter satisfaction at landing his first kickflip. The stomach-turning mixture of thrill and nervousness that filled his whole body on the day of his first competition.
Skating was the only thing he'd ever felt truly good at – at the very least, the only thing he'd ever felt any recognition for. His parents had bought both him and Drew boards one Christmas after endless begging on their parts. He was nine and Drew was 10. Drew gave up on skating after about a week. Adam was proud to say that he lasted a whole month before calling it quits.
Things had changed when his next-door neighbor and former babysitter, Lisa Meyer, got a new boyfriend. Bryce Arnold had literally shaped his whole life.
Two years had passed since his first, brief, attempt at skateboarding. It was the summer before his last year of primary school. The first time he ever saw Bryce he was doing heelflips off a plywood ramp he'd built outside of Lisa's house.
He was tall. He had a cool, shaggy haircut. His shirt had swear words on it.
Adam (then Gracie) felt a tug in his chest immediately. He wanted to be tall. He wanted a cool, shaggy haircut. He wanted a shirt with swear words on it.
He wanted to skate.
After week and a half of shyly staring at Bryce from the swing in his front yard, Lisa had noticed. She introduced them. It took him nearly a week to work up the courage to ask Bryce for skateboard lessons but the older boy agreed with a startling eagerness that Adam now attributed to a mixture of flattery and wanting to score points with Lisa.
Within a matter of days Bryce graduated from impossibly cool older kid to a big-brother-like figure; and although Bryce and Adam's odd friendship ended when he and Lisa broke up at the end of that summer he'd managed to shape Adam's entire life in irreversible ways.
Bryce taught Adam to skate. Bryce made him mix CDs of AFI and Senses Fail and Dead Hand. Bryce was his first crush.
Even though years had passed, Adam still wasn't sure if he'd wanted to kiss Bryce or be him. The crush had been rather innocent – he was, afterall, still a pre-teen, not yet capable of any serious romantic or sexual urges. But it was an important first step, nonetheless.
Adam sighed wistfully before riding up to grind on the rail a second time. Remembering Bryce always put him in a weird mood – a good mood, though. He sometimes wondered where the older boy was. He always wondered just what Bryce would think of the man that the little girl he'd mentored that summer had become. But, the truth was, he'd held back any attempts to contact his old idol for fear of that exact answer.
Adam wasn't a fool. He knew that memory was infinitely better than any reality ever could be.
He popped a quick kickflip, off a short set of stairs. The landing was kind of sketchy, but he could already feel his body re-adjusting to the board.
He supposed it didn't really matter what Bryce would think of him now.
I don't really hate myself anymore, he mused. I guess that's going to have to be good enough.
He took the next set of stairs badly, the board rolled out from under him and he fell to the ground. The skin on his hand scraped; it stung, the skin pale white with flecks of red appearing on the surface. He sighed and lifted himself back up, relishing the ache in his knees and palms. He brushed the dirt off his pants and stepped back onto the board.
Adam exhaled heavily and watched the steam rise from his mouth. He rode back up to the top of the stairs sore.
Determined.
Content
X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-X
He left the park just before 7:00 – the peace he sought there long since broken by joggers and dog walkers. He got a bagel and a coffee at the cafe across the street. The girl behind the counter had long bangs and an eyebrow piercing and she winked at him when he dropped his last two dollars in the tip jar.
By the time he reached the steps of Degrassi it was about 7:20 – plenty of time to kill before class started. Fingers numb, belly full, he skated to the front steps of the school, settling on the wide concrete stairs to relax for a while.
He stretched his body over several steps, laying his head back, using his backpack as a pillow. He fished his mp3 player out of the pocket of his hoodie and slipped the earbuds in place. Eyes closed, he brought the skateboard up to his chest and rested it there, tape down.
He made his way through two songs before a light pressure on his foot made his eyes shoot open.
"Clare?" he asked, sitting up and pulling his earbuds out.
She smiled.
He bit his lip.
"Hi, Adam," she greeted warmly. "What are you doing here?"
"Ah, just..." he trailed off, situating the skateboard under his feet so he could slide it sideways on the stairs. "You know."
She nodded and he tried to feel like less of an idiot.
"So..."
She was staring at him expectantly.
"Could I, um, could I sit down or something...?"
Oh.
"Oh. Yeah, I mean... totally," Being in this close proximity to Clare usually left Adam wanting to slam his face into nearby solid objects.
She leaned down and brushed the steps off before seating herself next to him. Close enough for him to smell her (what the Hell was that anyway? Peaches? Some kind of flower?) but just far enough apart so that they weren't touching.
"You're not usually here this early," she noted, playing with the straps of her bookbag.
"Oh," he cleared his throat, cheeks still bright red. "Yeah. I left kind of early today. Sometimes you just... have to get out."
She nodded slowly, something in her eyes sad and too familiar as she gazed off across the parking lot.
"Yeah," she agreed, absently.
The uneven tone of her voice made his heart seize up in his chest. He breathed out slowly through his nose. He wanted to hold her hands, he wanted to brush the hair back from her face, he wanted to press his ear against her chest and listen to her breathe and take her away from whatever made her voice quiver like that.
"So," her voice was so bright so different than what it had been a moment ago that it startled him. He jumped and re-committed his focus to her. "You skateboard, then?"
"Uh," he swallowed, rolling the board back and forth thoughtfully with his ankles. "Yeah. I guess."
I guess?
God, he needed to learn to not sound like a complete fucking idiot around her.
Clare once more seemed mercifully oblivious to Adam's utter horror at his loss of mental faculties.
He was grateful.
"That's really cool," she sounded genuine but she still wasn't looking out him, her gaze fixed on the parking lot.
Probably looking for Eli, Adam thought darkly. Not that he could blame her. It would be ridiculous to think that a guy like Adam could compete with a guy like Eli for Clare's interest. Hell, he could barely hold her attention.
"I always wished I could do something like that, you know," she continued.
"Like what?" he asked cautiously, half convinced she wasn't even listening to him.
"Like skateboarding. Or... playing guitar. Or getting a tattoo..."
"Getting a tattoo isn't really... a skill or anything..." he pointed out, kicking himself even as the words slipped past his lips.
"Oh, I know," she smiled sheepishly. "I just meant... doing things that are cool."
"Well, what's stopping you?" he was genuinely curious at this point.
"Oh, my parents never would have let me do anything dangerous like that. I mean, my dad taught me how to ride a bike and took me and my sister skiing when we were kids but skateboards are... different, somehow. And they had me take violin lessons when I was a kid but I hated them and they hated hearing me practice, so I got to quit – doubt they'd be okay with any other instrument since I quit the fist time. And don't even get me started on what they'd do if I ever got a tattoo..."
"Sounds harsh," he says because he can't think of anything else. His parents weren't... the most lax. And they certainly weren't, exactly, the most supportive (of him anyway). But he couldn't imagine them ever trying to keep him from doing the things he loved. They bought him his first skateboard. They drove him to competitions. They paid for his bass lessons. And even though they strictly forbid him, when he came home with that incredibly ill-thought-out lip piercing, they only freaked out for a week – they didn't even make fun of him when it got infected and had to be removed.
"I guess it does," she agrees. "But, I mean, it's not like they're awful. They, um, they let me take a creative writing class over the summer. That was really great."
"Oh, you're a writer?" He knew she was really good at English – they were the only grade 10s in the advanced class they shared with Eli – but he didn't know she was serious about it outside of school.
"Yeah," she beamed. "Sometimes I write for the school paper. I do lots of... of poetry and just, short stories. I wrote my first play last year and the drama club even put it on!"
"Wow," he smiled, impressed. "That's pretty awesome."
"Yeah, it was really cool," she breathed. "Well, not as cool as skateboarding, maybe."
She bumped her shoulder against his playfully and he hoped she didn't notice the way his breath caught in his throat.
"Maybe," his voice sounded weird in his ears.
She smiled widely and they settled into comfortable silence.
More and more kids were arriving. Adam held off glancing at his watch but he knew school was bound to start soon. Part of him wanted to get up and hurry to his locker, there was a bit of history homework he hadn't quite finished last night and he'd hoped to get it done today. But he didn't want this... moment with Clare to be over.
"Guess we'd better head in," Clare noted casually.
Adam rushed to his feet, and held his hand out to help her up. She smiled demurely and gripped her hand in his. "Thanks," she murmured, turning to gather her book bag.
"I could teach you, you know," he blurted.
"What?" she turned back to him, bewildered.
"T-to skateboard," he elaborated, biting his lip nervously and glancing around. "I mean, if you wanted."
Her brows furrowed. "Oh. I don't know, I mean... really?"
He shrugged, feeling anxious and exposed.
Idiot. Fucking idiot. What the fuck are you doing?
"Yeah," he swallowed, running this thumb nervously under the straps of his backpack.
"I was just talking, really," she explained awkwardly. "I don't think I'd really be any good at it. I'd probably make a fool out of myself and get hurt-"
"I'd never let you get hurt, Clare," he said seriously, straightening his shoulders.
She looked at him, a bit surprised by the naked earnestness of his words.
"I... look," he continued awkwardly, feeling his confidence falter. He picked his skateboard up from the ground and gently stepped around her. "It's fun. Are... are you completely opposed to fun?"
She giggled, visibly relaxing. "No, I guess not."
He felt some of the tension leave his body, and his breath came easier.
"Are you completely opposed to hanging out with me a every now and then after school?" he continued.
Oh my god, you incredible moron – what are you doing?
"No."
"Okay, then," he smirked, allowing himself a brief moment of victory, "tomorrow after school we'll head to The Dot and then I'll give you your first lesson. Sound good?"
She hesitated a moment before smiling brightly. "Sure. Thanks, Adam."
He beamed back, feeling a warm burst of pride rising up his chest.
"Eli's going to flip when he hears," Clare continued, voice excited. "He always complains I'm not bold enough..."
The warmth in his chest was promptly extinguished.
Of course.
Of course she's not doing this to spend time with you.
Of course she's doing this for Eli.
He sighed, trying to will the ugly feeling of jealousy out of his heart.
"Yeah," Adam mumbled. "He'll flip."
The bell rang.
He walked to class alone.
AN: Alright, you guys did a great job last time. Think we can keep up the awesome reviews? I'll post the second part of chapter 2 um... whenever I make some progress on chapter 4. I like to keep a bit ahead of the story.
Thanks for reading.
-Orange