genderfluid but i hate being feminine / nonbinary but i love the way masculine looks on me

Light slips through the blinds, slivers of gold illuminating the room. Chains engraved with dates and memories bind him to his bed, eyes open because there are less flattering things to reminisce about when they're closed.

(Remember that one time four years ago?)

Groggy composure contorts into a grimace. He groans, wiping a sluggish hand over his face at an attempt to clean the memory from his conscious. It does nothing more than cover his vision with temporary darkness, and the memory resurfaces, a hot mess of familiar faces and an embarrassing past self.

Long hair and a terrible fashion sense. Graphic tees and camo pants.

He's found a better style.

(Though, anything could be considered better than the graphic-tee-and-camo-pants combination. Even his birthday suit, because at least he loves his body more than he did all those years ago. He likes to think that it shows with how he carries himself. And the fact that he actually has some meat on his bones, now.)

He shifts, thinking that the smaller movements might give him the energy to actually wake up. His weighted blanket covers his waist, but not his chest, and after an eternity of about two minutes (in disassociation time), he realizes that it's fucking freezing, and lifts a (not actually) fifty pound arm to pull the blanket up to cover him in a coccoon of what he wished was an actual person. Or maybe a cat.

(But oh, the voice he's beaten back with a stick starts to mock, you know who you wish was here with you, cuddling and warm in this cold room of yours—)

Another eternity of cringing, flinching away at awkward interactions with her, because who the Hell knows how to act around attractive women? His face burns, but at least the blush warms his body in his room, frigid from winter and a fan left on for gray noise.

The fan. He focuses on it, the noise of the three blades working in perfect mechanical synchrony to pull him back into the lazy river of a thoughtless mind, streams of words that lead to a void that he will never truly recall when he returns from his place in space. An empty canvas painted with invisible ink, and—

And thud goes something outside his bedroom door, and his soul falls back to his bed.

(How poetic.)

The birds sing outside his window, and he lifts his head to watch dust trickle in the sunlight, the occassional shadow of a sparrow greeting him.

South-facing windows were a terrible creation, he thinks absent-mindedly, eyes half-glaring at the sun and its position directly in front of his comfortable bed. Extra pillows piled up in front of the side closest to the window, so when he was completely horizontal, he would (usually) be perfectly hidden from the blinding rays.

Nothing more painful than a south-facing window.

Nothing—

—a quiet puff of laughter, not humorous but awkward, confused; eyes flicker everywhere around the room and you are oblivious, blind because of infatuation, because a confession could never be rejected, not by you—

—alright, maybe there were things.

Guilt grabs and twists his gut into a nauseous concoction, because he was an asshole when he was younger. Being raised by a narcissist does that to someone, but it's not like he isn't an asshole now. It's just different— he's a bitch because he doesn't let people push him around.

He's a bitch because he speaks his mind, and since he's AFAB* (he wished it meant A Fabulous, Arrogant Bastard), people like him aren't supposed to speak their mind. But he does it anyway, even if the repercussions make him add another terrible memory to cringe about late at night when he's trying to sleep.

(Who needs sleep?)

After all, that's what coffee's for.

Coffee. What time is it? The thought repeats, echoesechoesechoes until he finally has the energy to push himself up. Slow, perhaps to delay the inevitable for a few seconds longer. He grabs a sweater, sweatpants, slips them on.

Feels like that's used up all of the energy he has, and he blinks slowly. Moves like a sloth, because don't they move slow to save energy? But he curses at himself, because dumbass, you're not a sloth.

Manages to (finally) get out of bed, finds his phone. Looks at the time.

Then he hauls ass back under the covers, because the inevitable can be delayed for a little while longer.

_

*AFAB = Assigned Female At Birth.

Yes I'm questioning my identity. No I don't care about pronouns, this just always happens when I'm PMS-ing and I felt like writing it out. Yes this is about me.