You're honestly what sure the costume is supposed to be. "Horns?" you ask, turning them over in your hand. "Really?"
"Hold still," Sylvie chides as she runs the curling iron through your hair. "We're not at the 'burning our names into each other' stage of the relationship."
"Fine." You roll your eyes, trying not to squirm on the bathroom stool. Being padded and taped like this feels weird, a strange blend of physical discomfort and emotional peace. Sylvie has told you that she feels the same when she becomes a he and has to wear a binder.
"Seriously, what the hell is this?" you asks, smoothing the folds of the gold-embroidered green grown she's draped you in. "Some kind of forest spirit?"
"I think it might have been Norse? I don't know, I just grabbed what looked good. Plus, we match." She gestures to her form-fitting black suit threaded with gold, the crown that's glittering on her temples.
"If you say so." You twist your fingers in your lap, trying not to look as anxious as you feel. You've gone out in public with makeup before, but never in something that is so very much a dress, with the black leggings that could be construed as manly in a pinch hidden under the skirt.
Someone bangs on the door and you stiffen. "Fuck off!" Sylvie yells, and you try to take comfort in her confidence.
The banging gets louder, accompanied by muffled yelling, but she steadily ignores until your hair is done. When she finally swings the door open you're greeting by one of the other foster kids, a tall, scowling boy who looks at you with the kind of repulsion you've seen in school corridors before.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" he barks.
"There's another bathroom downstairs, dickwad," Sylvie shoots back.
"And why the hell do I need to inconvenience myself just so you can play doll with this f--"
"You want me to break your nose again?" she asks, low and deadly. The kid jerks to a halt, biting his lip. Before he can gather himself she grabs the makeup case in one hand and your arm with the other, leading you out of the room and kicking the door shut behind her.
"Asshole," she mutters, stalking down the hall. She guides you into her room--small, but private, unlike some of the other places she's been stuck in over the years--and starts setting up the makeup kit on the floor as you lean against the wall. "Sorry about that," she mutters.
"It's fine," you mutter, looking at your feet. And it is, really. You've dealt with way worse shit than him.
"Hey." She looks up at you. "It's gonna be okay. You got that?"
"Mmmm." You settle down beside and firmly remind yourself that you're not the type to let some jerk ruin your fun.
"I can fight my own fights," you murmur as she works her magic on your face. You have. You've spent a decent chunk of your life taking down jerks like that--or hell, most people who got too close--with icy barbs and wicked jabs. At least until Sylvie rolled into her life and didn't so much melt your walls as bulldoze right through them.
"I know," she says, plucking out a mascara wand. "But this is my turf, and I have to share a house with that dick, which makes him my problem." She lets off a soft hum of concentration as she works at her eyes, her other hand bracing itself on her shoulder, and you can't help relaxing into her touch.
When she's finished and leads you to her mirror. And it's....weird. On one level, you know that there's no way some makeup and curly hair and a weird costume can make look like a 'proper' girl.
And on another, it just feels right. The smirking red curve of your lips, the glittering shadow, the dark ripple of hair, the graceful fall of the costume--it looks like how you feel right now, which can be pretty rare for you.
You run your hands through your hair, turn your cheek to get a better look at the blush she's put there. "I look like..." You can't put a word to it.
"Like a goddess," Sylvie murmurs, coming up behind you and planting a soft kiss on your neck. "My goddess." Then she turns your around, pushing the makeup case in your hand. "Now do me."
You've spent years teaching yourself with makeup tutorials, often using your brother's face as a canvas when he's a patient mood, and you don't think you do too shabby a job. The two of you pose for selfies, smirking and posing and occasionally for the camera, until your brother texts to tell you he's here.
Then Sylvie's scampering out of your window and helping you down, both of you quietly cursing as you wrestle with the unwieldy dress. She to carry the heels and horns while you gather up the skirt as the two of your sneak across the lawn, trying not to get your clothes dirty. Sylvie is still grounded (re: broken noses) and you don't to get her in trouble.
Your brother is waiting at the agreed place, fingers drumming worriedly on the wheel. "Hey," he says as you scramble into the backseat. "Hey, yourself," Sylvie replies, plopping into the seat besides him. You don't respond, too busy checking your hair for leaves and trying to ignore the tight, anxious feeling that twists in your stomach as you get closer to your goal.
You shouldn't be scared. You've been dreaming about this for days, ever since Sylvie first raised the possibility. But you are, scared of not only of the physical dangers you face, but of the hidden part of yourself you're going to bring into the light, the step you're taking.
This might be a night of deception, but you're going to be more honest than you've ever been. And that's not something you're too familiar with.
But you try to keep your shit together, exchanging conspiratorial looks with Sylvie as she bullies Thor into letting her play the closest thing to punk she can find in his CD collection. She rolls down the window just enough for her hair to whip in the breeze, while her crown still glints securely on her hand. Neither of you mention how her hand casually rests on the door handle.
Your brother turns the music down as you get closer to the city. "Dad thinks I took you to Dungeons and Dragons," he says. You squirm in your seat. Dad...Dad is complicated, has been even before you found out you were adopted. You don't want to think about him.
"My friends will cover for you if they have to." You have to admit you kind of like your brother's friends, even though you know that's one of the least-emo things you could ever say. Sometimes you even have fun with them, when you're not busy battling your own quiet jealousy of how easily your brother seems to fit in everywhere.
"I'll pick up at two, okay? But if you need to go earlier, just call me. Don't drink anything anyone gives you, and cover the drinks you buy. Remember what Natasha taught you about punches. If the cops show up have your IDs ready, they won't--"
"I'll be fine," you say harshly. "You don't have to be such a mom all the time." Instantly you regret it--after all, your mother's dead, your sister's long gone, and your father is...your father. Who else is left to play the role of mother?
Sylvie gives you a look. She doesn't care what you say about your dad, but she doesn't like it when you talk shit about your brother. I know he can get annoying, but he loves you, she says. And people who love you are too easy to lose. It's a lesson she's learned well since her family died in a car crash.
It's partly because of her, and party because of the guilt bubbling in your own chest that you mutter, "Sorry." You lean over the seats and pat your brother on the shoulder. "We really will remember," you say firmly. "I promise."
He looks at you and there's worry in his eyes, but trust as well. "Okay, sis," he says carefully. Sis. Something lovely flares up inside you at the word and you have to look out the window quickly.
"You're both relieved and more nervous than ever when your brother finds a parking spot on a dark city street." Sylvie helps you out, and you check each other's makeup before you slip on the stores. You instantly feel ridiculous, although when you glance in a shop window you suppose you're kind of grand, in your own way.
The heels are your own, ones worn and relatively comfortable from hours of practice in your room. You wobble in a careful circle, grounding yourself, and soon you're stepping with ease and poise.
Your brother insists on offering hugs, makes you repeat the time and place you'll meet up, and restrains himself just enough not to ask you to demonstrate the punch. Then he's driving away and Sylvie taking your hands, guiding you to the crowd of costume-clad shadows gathered outside the club. And you panic.
"We should go back," you mutter, both hoping she does and doesn't hear it. You don't know what you're thinking. You're going out in public, dressed as a girl, and what if someone from school finds out? What if the cops find out? What if someone calls the police and you get arrested and--
Sylvie pauses, looking up at you. "Do you really not want to go?" she asks.
"No. I..." You shake your head. "I've never done anything like this." It's Sylvie who knows all the people, all the wild places to hide. It's Sylvie who introduced you to stuff like Orlando and internet forums, who helped you find a name for your own strangeness. Sylvie's the one who's been around, and you're the country hick. As the colored lights and blasting music up ahead....
"....This is your world," you say. "Not mine."
Sylvie steps forward, takes your hand. You suck in a breath, waiting for her to berate you for your weakness, for dragging her out here and caving at the last minute. Instead, she takes your chin and pulls you into a kiss, soft and tender. You're kissing a girl in the middle of the street, and both of you are wearing lipstick, and the world doesn't cave in.
She pulls back, adjusting her horns. "This world is for anyone who wants it," she says. "And you and I, we're the same. If I can reach it, so can you." Her fingers wrap around yours, slim but strong. "Do you want to try?"
You look into your eyes and you believe her. You don't have any other choice. "Yeah," you breathe.
Your hands stay linked all the way to the line, through the tangle of bodies that you can't focus enough on to really observe, past the bouncer who's apparently a friend of a friend. You hold her hand as you pass into the dark, close heat of the entrance passage, and then your fingers slacken in shock when you step into the light.
It's so much. The disco ball twirls, flashing bright enough that it almost things, in what feels like every color in the rainbow. A kaleidoscope of bodies whirls across the floor, twisting and tump. You see an Afro-sporting angel lift a giggling devil into the air, see three cats sway in each other's arms, see a silver-suited figure topple into a near-perfect handstand before getting right back to dancing.
Sylvie calls and waves to friends as you make their way around the room, although you're not sure how she knows who anyone is. It's hard to distinguish faces in this crowd...and now that you think about, it's nearly impossible to tell what the people in this scrum around you are supposed to be.
The laws of bodies, the ones you've grown up with and never really thought you could get away from, have just...disappeared. You tilt your head back and take a deep breath, drinking it all in.
Sylvie leans close to you, grinning. "How's it feel?"
"Like I never want it to end." And you don't. You want to carry this feeling, this recklessness, this fuck-you with you back onto into the cruel bright world, to keep it with you no matter whether you feel like a boy or girl or somewhere in between. And you will.
You turn to Sylvie and extend a hand. "Would you like to dance, m'lady?"
She gives you a radiant smile. "Always, m'lady."
You whirl each other out onto the dance floor, holding each other up when your heels skitter on the dirty floor. You let yourselves dance, arms snapping and heads bopping, feet pounding so hard the vibrations echo through your bones. You scream-sing along with the blasting lyrics or simply let out hysterical giggles as you show off your best moves, one-upping each other.
You bounce off the other bodies, even get twirled around the room by strangers, but always crash into his other's arms. Sylvie is shining in the light, graceful and glowing, so that she really does look divine. You feel the same way.
You take her hand, and together you learn how to fly.