Trans-Male Imagines

Brendon Urie

A/N: Happy Almost Thanksgiving? If you do not celebrate Thanksgiving, feel free to skip over this chapter.

Trigger Warnings: Unaccepting parents, hints of a panic attack, swearing

Y/N- Your name

Y/B/N- Your birth name

"Hey, you ready to go?"

Brendon's voice echoes down the hallway. You tug down your binder as fast as you can, throwing on and buttoning a collared shirt as Brendon pokes his head around the door, hair bouncing in it's quiff. Leather jacket perfectly form-fitting, black jeans lint free and smooth, he looks as prepared as ever. You glance down at your shirt, buttoned off by one, the cuffs rolled unevenly.

"Yeah, I guess." You tiredly undo the buttons to fix them, wincing as your too-small binder pinches against your ribs.

"Hey." Brendon's arms slide around your waist. "It's going to be fine. I know you and your family aren't on the same page with pronouns, but you are the most wonderful boyfriend I could ever ask for, and I love you, and it's going to be fine." You smile gratefully and laugh as he presses a kiss to the back of your neck.

"Thanks, Brendon."

~

"Maybe we should just leave..."

Your breathing quickens as Brendon slows the car to a park outside your parents' home. At a moment of terrible timing, your father emerges onto the porch, waving. Brendon exits the car and opens your door, using a ruse of shutting it behind you to lean in closer.

"It's going to be okay, (Y/N)." Brendon turns, takes your hand in his, and sends back a wave of his own at your father before walking the both of you up to the house.

"Happy Thanksgiving, (Y/B/N)!" your father exclaims, wrapping you in a tight hug. Your mind blanks and you swear that you hear your ribs crack. He gives Brendon a pointed look as he releases you. You gasp and reach for Brendon's hand.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Brendon," says your father, a little less warmly than he did to you. Brendon seems unphased, however, and returns your father's handshake steadily.

"Happy Thanksgiving, sir."

The three of you step inside, out of the snow that is starting to drift down outside the window.

Your mother, sitting on the couch, looks up and frowns at your haircut and choice of clothing as you wipe off your shoes on the rug.

"Hi, Mom!" you greet; an attempt at a friendly approach. No need to make the day more awkward than it already was. Brendon squeezes your hand lightly, a small reassurance. Your mother sniffs.

"Hello, (Y/B/N). I see you're still with Brendon," she says, noticeably colder than your father's greeting.

"Um, yeah, Mom... I called to tell you-"

But she has already turned away.

~

The table, pristinely set, Thanksgiving dinner laid out neatly, is nearly silent as the food is passed around. There is small talk of Panic's! progress, new record labels and such, how everyone is doing. The conversations are littered with wrong pronouns and names, and you can feel the familiar dam of tears welling in your throat. As your parents stand to clear the food away from the table, Brendon intercepts them with the offer to do it himself. You join him, whisking off plates to the kitchen.

As you set down the last dish of cranberry sauce, you slump to the floor, arms locked around your knees. Brendon shuts the dishwasher and starts it, effectively masking the noise of your quiet cries and his voice. He lays a hand across your shoulders, tipping his head against yours as he sits.

"It's been six years, Brendon. How can they still not care? I've tried so many times to tell them that I'm not their daughter! How do they ignore it?" You fold inwards, the leather of his jacket cool, the zipper digging into your shoulder. Brendon sucks in a breath, ready to respond, but he is cut short by the sight of your mother glaring at you from the doorway.

"We don't ignore it, (Y/B/N). We just simply cannot tolerate it. You were born female for a reason, and that's what you'll stay as. You are not my son, and you never will be. You are my daughter, and that is all you ever will be," your mom spews, volume growing with each word. She stalks past you, and you flinch backwards into Brendon. He stands and steps in from of you as your mother throws open the backdoor.

"How can you do that to another human being? To your child? All he wants is acceptance, and you can't even give him that. What kind of parent are you? Why does it matter at all?" Brendon is fuming. "Your son and I will be leaving now, thank you. And we will not be coming back for Christmas, thank you." Brendon pulls you up and guides you back out to his car, his arm around your shoulders the while way, murmuring soft words of comfort in your ear.

It's a half hour of silence as you drive back to your apartment before you stutter out a quiet, "I'm so sorry." Brendon unlocks the door and turns to you.

"You didn't do anything wrong, (Y/N). It's their own damn fault if they don't love you as you are, okay, darling? None of this- none of this, is your fault," Brendon says gently. He leaves a tingling kiss on your mouth.

"I love you." Your voice is quiet.

"I love you too, (Y/N)."