GILBERT

"Well, Gilbert, what did we learn?" I ask myself as I rub conditioner into my hair (it keeps it soft, fuck you). "Don't make friends by drugging people. Check."

I bow my head, feel the warm water push my hair, watch the suds vanish down the drain. "Don't assume gender based on eyebrow size. Check."

I get myself good and soapy, then rinse. My dick is half-hard from the warmth and slippery soap, but I don't want to jack off right now. I want to see how Arthur is making out in my kitchen. Oh, making out in my kitchen sounds like fun . . . but with a guy?

Girl, not guy, Arthur said, in a small, soft voice I hadn't heard from him until then. In fact, there's really nothing masculine about Arthur Kirkland, now that I think about it. His body isn't like mine; it's delicate, lithe. Feminine.

I get out of the shower, start towelling off, and shake my head at myself in the mirror. First it was the girl of my dreams turned into a man, and now it's a green-eyed boy saying he wants to be a girl.

Who says lightning doesn't strike the same place twice?

Once I've put my face on and found some clean jeans-and-T-shirt (not hard, since yesternight was laundry) I head downstairs, where I find Arthur munching on some Lucky Charms at my kitchen table. He's not hard to see, because he has turned on every sepia lamp in my house.

"This place hasn't been this bright in almost a decade," I tell him, amused, as I get some protein powder out of the cupboard and the milk from the fridge.

Arthur glances around in alarm, like he hadn't realized the lights were on. "Oh—I can turn them off, if you'd rather—"

"Nah, it's what they're here for. Seeing shit with." I've gotten pretty good at living in darkness, but expecting the same from Arthur would be mean as hell. I shake up my breakfast and sit down with Arthur.

"There were no marshmallows in the box," he says, showing my his spoonful of nasty wheat shape whatevers.

"Yeah, I ate those out. Don't worry, I didn't spit on the rest, even though they fuckin' deserve it. Flavorless gross pieces of shit, they are."

Arthur arches one of his thick-as-all-hell eyebrows, amused. "I like them. The marshmallows are too sweet."

"The hell kinda alien are you?" I sip my vanilla protein. It tastes like vanilla protein. "Oh, no, wait. I getcha. You're, like, one of those stiff upper lip Englishmen who hate having fun. That's what those marshmallows taste like, ya know. Fun."

Arthur shakes his head. "They taste like too much concentrated corn syrup to me." He looks down at the cereal he's stirring, pensive. "I like having fun. I just don't really know how anymore."

I nod slowly. Fuck, this guy—girl?—is miserable, but why? None of my business, I suppose. Being nosy isn't very awesome. So I won't pry. Directly.

"Well, tell me something less depressing about yourself, Kirkland. How old are ya?"

"I'm twenty-seven. How old are you?"

"Damn, ya don't look a day over twenty." I take another swig of my protein shake. "Ugh, my age? That's pretty fuckin' depressing. But, fair's fair. I'm thirty-four."

He looks at me with wide eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah. Why, do I look older?" Christ, there's a scary thought.

"No, you look younger. Your skin is smoother than mine."

"Hell yeah, hiding from the sun for years really cuts down on a man's radiation levels. No beach weekends for me. No skin cancer, fingers crossed. My liver disease prospects ain't so good, though. I like a good drink."

Arthur nods. "I did, too. But I got sobered up. I was going downhill really fast, before I quit."

"Well, good for you, Kirkland. I'll try not to tempt ya back into sin." I smile at him. "So, just tell me now so I'll know to shut up about it. The girl thing. You open to talking about it?"

Arthur hesitates for a moment, then nods shyly. "Yes, I'd like to talk about it. I haven't really had time to consider it . . . I sort of only . . . realized it recently."

"Okay. Well, I ain't trained in anything, but I'm a pretty damn fine listener, so there's that."

"Well . . ." Arthur pushes his bowl of milky mush away from him and folds his arms on the tabletop. "I haven't felt . . . right in this body since I was little, and even that I can't really remember."

"So ya think you'll feel right with tits?"

He winces, gives me and exasperated look. "Yes, I think they'll help. But I'm less concerned with what I look like than what I feel like. I don't want to be Arthur anymore."

I shrug. "First step to changin' an identity is the name. You have any ideas?"

Arthur looks afraid, anxious, like he can't believe I'm even taking this seriously. "Um . . . I don't know. Like I said, I hadn't . . . thought about it. Um . . . Kate? Katelyn?"

I squint at him, then shake my head. "Nah, doesn't fit with ya."

"Well, I won't look like this once I have . . . surgery . . ." He stares off into the void, horrified. "Where will I go for that? I don't know anyone, or . . . oh, bloody hell . . ."

He's getting overwhelmed. He is about to freak out in my kitchen. Holy shit.

I get up, go over to him, take his hands in mine. He looks down at our twined fingers, then up at me, his emerald eyes glistening with unfallen tears.

"Don't worry about it, Miss Kirkland," I tell her, not him, with a smile as gentle as I can manage. "I know a surgeon who specializes in this kinda thing. He's an old friend of mine. He'll help ya. I'll ask him myself."

Disbelief pales Arthur's face, and then my own, because she is hugging me, her face buried in my shirt, tears dampening the cotton.

"Thank you," Arthur whispers. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me," I say, loosely returning the hug. "I already told ya, I'm the awesomest guy you'll ever meet."