TRANS // ot4

Two

Michael feels like shit.

He feels like the absolute scum of the earth. The gum on the bottom of people's shoes. The dust under trash cans. That's Michael.

He knew they were struggling for money. He knew they were hurting, and he still felt the need to come out to them. Now Luke's busking all day and booking gigs all night, Calum's spending his days trying to be charismatic enough to sell cars to make commissions, and Ashton's working at the auto shop downtown all morning and painting all evening. They're all working their asses off, and Michael can only make minimum wage at a part time job.

He wishes he could do even more, but he can't. Not with how terrible he feels about his body. He wants to hide it, not wrap it in tight khaki pants and black shirts for work. It physically hurts, the throbbing in his breasts and ribs that's not from dysphoria, but how terrible he is at wrapping.

He knows ace bandages aren't good for him, but he can't afford anything else.

In pain, both mentally and physically, it's impossible for him to work more than part time. He doesn't think he'd want to, either. And he feels like the scum of the earth.

Michael usually works from ten to four, six days a week, if he's lucky. Luke and Ashton are both gone by the time he wakes up, so he gets ready with Calum. They eat breakfast together, sometimes catch a shower if Michael's up for it, then head out. Calum spends a carefully planned amount of time riding the bus for fifteen minutes in the wrong direction, to make sure Michael gets to work, before he takes a different bus to the car dealership he works at, starting at eleven. (Michael thinks it's ironic that he sells cars for a living but has yet to purchase one, himself.)

After work, Michael takes the bus home by himself, sometimes catching Luke on the way back so they can walk to the apartment together. Most nights, Luke's out until dark, so it's just Michael home alone until Ashton comes in around six. Calum gets back around seven, but he usually naps until midnight, so he can be up and ready to walk Luke to his gigs.

It's a process they've gotten into. One that Michael doesn't really mind, except for the gap from four thirty to six when he's alone. It hurts when he's alone, when there's no one there to tell him how great he is. His depression sets in, seeping into his bones and leaking through his muscles. It pulls him down, makes him want to throw up from the mere sight of his reflection.

He gets stuck in a loop of this is my fault, I came out to them, Ashton needs to pay for my rent and future doctor bills, it's my fault that I'm alone. Ashton's working himself to the bone and I'm being lonely, dying without him, even though it's my fault.

He tries watching television, but his smooth skin itches and his protruding hipbones feel like they're cracking inside of him. He can barely sit still. His hair scratches at the back of his neck and the top of his shoulders, his breasts hang heavy against his chest, his thighs burn. He hates how feminine his body is, how curvy he is, the way his hips are large and his waist indents. He hates it.

Ashton usually gets home before he can go completely insane. But, sometimes he misses the mark, and Michael gets lost in a chant of how bad his body is.

****

Michael stares at his reflection, tilting his head and stretching out his jaw so his mouth forms a tiny O. His lips are naturally bright pink, another thing he hates, but they're pretty.

He is pretty, he thinks. He's really pretty. If he were a girl, he'd consider modeling. He shrugs at the mirror, then sets about gathering his hair in a pony tail. It's long, something his mother had always loved, always brushing and braiding it when he was younger. When she talked to him. It falls to the middle of his bicep when he's got it pulled back, just past his elbows when it's down.