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Demiboy. A person who identifies as mostly or partly male—I sit up, moving my computer to my lap—but may also identify as nonbinary some of the time, or even as a girl.
“Demiboy.” Demiboy, demiboy, demiboy.
It feels a little anticlimactic, getting the answer to a question I’ve been struggling with for months now.
“Had a fight, eh?”
“Young love. What else is there to say?”
“I’m not flaunting anything. I’m just existing. This is me. I can’t hide myself. I can’t disappear. And even if I could, I don’t fucking want to. I have the same right to be here. I have the same right to exist.”
You’re used to being a white guy in Brooklyn, used to always getting your way—no, fuck, I don’t care that you’re fucking gay, because people like Felix are queer and trans and Black, and they have to deal with so much more bullshit than you or me. And, okay, yes, you are marginalized for being gay, but instead of being a fucking ally to other marginalized people, people even more marginalized than you, you buy into the racist and patriarchal bullshit and act like you’re above them because you’re a white guy, and you act like they’re taking your space, and you think that you’re owed this whole
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He’s created his bubble of privilege, where no one is allowed but people like him, and because of that he doesn’t understand the world around him—doesn’t want to understand the world around him, because it’s too scary for him, too challenging.
It’s almost like I was looking for the pain and the hurt, because it was easier to live with the idea that, even though I want love, I’m not the kind of person who deserves to be loved.
“If you love me, why won’t you say my name? My real name?” He closes his mouth, swallowing. Then, “Felix.”
You refuse to be anything but yourself, no matter what. I look up to that. I admire that.”
“I’m sorry!” I say again. “You were right.” He shakes his head, and I don’t know if he can hear me. “You were right, I—” The float’s paused. Everyone’s watching now, people all around Ezra looking from him to me and back to him again. “I love you!” I yell.
“Say that again? Just one more time.” “I love you.” He leans in, hands on my cheeks as he kisses me.
He reaches down, wiping glitter from the corners of my eyes and my cheeks. He pulls his hand away, but I wish he wouldn’t.
The silence between me and Ezra on the train is strained, a little awkward—but not necessarily in a bad way. I can tell that we’re both just so excited to be next to each other, to have the chance to speak, and that we both have so much that we want to say, but we’re waiting for the moment we can finally be alone. He takes my hand, intertwining our fingers and rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “Is this okay?” he asks. I nod, biting back a smile. “Yeah. This is okay.”
Maybe this would’ve felt awkward or embarrassing once upon a time, but right now, I just want to paint this moment in my mind, something that I can always look back on and remember. I stare at his face as though I’m trying to commit every angle, the darkness of his eyes, the twitch of his smile to memory. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. “God, yeah.”
“Demiboy,” Ezra repeats, like he’s trying the word out on his tongue. “I like it. It reminds me of demigod or something.” “I’m not exactly a god.” “Depends on who you ask, I guess.”
But he isn’t you, Ez.” He smiles a little. “Damn right he isn’t me.” I roll my eyes with a laugh. “I love you,” he says below his breath, almost like he’s just talking to himself. “I’ve loved you for a while now.”
This kind of happiness. It can be scary, right?
“You deserve to be loved,”
“You deserve all of my love.”
Working on the paintings reminds me of who I am: the strength inside me, the beauty and determination and power.
The artwork is hanging on the lobby walls by the end of the day. I walk into the lobby, Ezra beside me, and we stand there and stare at each of the pieces, hanging exactly where my old photos had been hanging months before. Each painting’s title has my real name. Emotion builds in me, remembering the day I’d walked into this lobby and seen my old pictures and my deadname, knowing that the entire school had seen, too. The embarrassment, the pain, the anger. Ezra takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’m really proud of you,” he says.
Being trans brings me love. It brings me happiness. It gives me power.”
“It makes me feel like I’m a god. I wouldn’t change myself for anything.”
“Yeah. There was a site that said Felix means both ‘lucky’ and ‘happy.’”
