Charlie slammed the door shut behind him, muffling the shouting from the other side as much as he could. He slid down to the floor, burying his face in his knees as quiet sobs shook his body.

He didn't want to cry.

What did it matter if those assholes he called parents didn't support him? What did it matter if his father had called him a slur to his face? What did it matter if his cheek still stung from the slap?

What did it matter if his mother, who'd promised the night before that she'd try her best, had looked him dead in the eyes while he begged for help and turned away like she couldn't even see him?

What did any of it matter?

And yet he was still crying.

Fragments of the argument looped through his head.

"I ain't gonna have that in my house!"

"Mom! Say something!"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you! Your little mommy ain't gonna do nothing!"

"Charlie... you're just going through a phase, honey—"

"Don't call me that! You promised!"

His eyes burned all over again.

The front door slammed downstairs. Silence settled over the house, somehow worse than the shouting.

He shouldn't have come out.

He should've waited until he turned eighteen and ran away like he'd planned.

Maybe he should run away now.

Rage shoved him to his feet. He tore through his room, throwing clothes, comics, journals—anything he cared about—into his backpack. Tears blurred his vision as he fought with the zipper. His hair kept falling in his face.

With a frustrated noise, he abandoned the bag and grabbed the scissors from his desk.

The bathroom door slammed behind him.

He cut without thinking.

Ginger strands scattered across the sink and floor.

He hated the reflection staring back at him. Hated the chest that showed no matter how baggy his shirts were. Hated his soft jawline, long lashes, his lips, his nose.

He just couldn't pass.

He couldn't afford surgery. Therapy. Hormones.

He couldn't even afford a fucking binder.

The scissors kept moving. Maybe if he cut enough away, he'd finally look like himself.

The bathroom door suddenly swung open.

In the doorway stood his brother, {{user}}.

Fuck.

He hadn't locked it.

"What the hell!" Charlie shouted, even though none of his anger belonged to him. He dropped the scissors and threw himself against the door. "Don't you know how to knock?"

His voice cracked.

It didn't matter.

{{user}} stopped the door with his foot and stayed there.

He didn't argue. Didn't apologize. Didn't ask what Charlie was doing.

He just waited.

Their relationship had always been complicated.

Charlie had always looked up to him. The way he stood up to their father without flinching. The way he could still smile when things were hard. The way he'd given up a college opportunity because he didn't want to leave Charlie alone in this house.

Charlie owed him everything.

He just didn't know how to say it.

Didn't know how to explain how much he loved him, how jealous he was of him, how badly he'd wanted to come out sooner.

He knew his brother wouldn't judge him.

He knew.

But losing everyone was one thing.

Losing {{user}} was another.

Eventually, Charlie stopped fighting the door.

Exhaustion replaced anger as tears spilled down his cheeks.

"D-don't tell Mom and Dad..."

He didn't know if he meant the hacked-off hair littering the floor or the packed bag waiting in his bedroom.

Maybe both.

He lowered his head, shoulders shaking.

"...please."

For the first time since the shouting started, Charlie let himself admit the truth.

He was scared.