Work Text:
…trans as in -cendence. Queer
as in scribbling sharpie
over the shadow of the she I was never
going to be…
- Michael Gray Bulla
The silence is agonizing.
There are seven heartbeats in the room, and Robin can hear each of them, all of them just slightly off beat, discordant. She’s the only one that’s standing; the others are all sitting on the sofas around the room, sorted into groups. Hopper is sitting on the coffee table, and he looks exhausted, his head fallen forward like he’s analyzing the rug, but one of his legs is bouncing up and down anxiously. He’s sitting so he’s facing Joyce, who contrasts him. She usually does, small and outspoken, tucked away into his shadow because he thinks he needs to protect her.
But she’s sitting perfectly still, staring at the same spot on the ground as Hopper, her hands holding her knees so tightly her knuckles are pale. She’s silent in a way that’s unsettling, like the quiet before a storm, like a sudden stop to birds’ singing in a bustling forest.
Robin’s cheek is sore from how many times she’s rubbed it harshly, but she just does it again, turning as she paces, scanning the room. They’re all looking at the floor uncomfortably.
Except Argyle, who’s looking up at Robin, his eyes watching her as she moves back and forth. Their eyes meet, but neither of them reacts or responds. Robin looks past him, but it’s somehow comforting to have Argyle’s eyes on her while she feels like this, like whatever the fuck this is. Like Argyle’s gaze will protect her somehow.
And Murray. He’s looking at the ceiling like a petulant child, like he’s annoyed, and just looking at him makes the rage in Robin’s body rise to the surface. Her face flushes with warmth, and her jaw clenches, and she forces herself to turn away before she does something stupid.
“What the hell are we all waiting for?” Murray asks abruptly after a while, and Robin can’t help herself.
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” she snaps. Her voice is too sharp, too loud, but she can barely hear herself, and her arms tighten where they’re crossed over her chest. “Because you fucking should, alright? Jesus fucking Christ.”
Murray rolls his eyes, and Robin wants to break him. She’s never considered herself a particularly violent person, but she wants to smash her fists into him until he’s nothing but a pile of blood and bones, until no one can recognize his stupid fucking face.
She’s looking at him. It might not even count as a glare; her eyes are wide and her jaw is clenched, and her eyebrows are raised. She feels fucking sick.
Her mouth opens as she prepares to say something that she hasn’t thought through at all, but she stops at the found of a thud on the stairs. She turns away from Murray, steps toward the entrance of the living room and leaning to look at the front door, just in time to see Eddie and Steve disappear behind it, their fingers locked. The door slams, and Robin jumps a little bit, lifting her hand to rub her face again as she turns back.
“You’re a piece of shit,” she says sharply, staring at Murray again. Her voice is flat, almost emotionless even though she’s trembling. “You’re fucking shit, Bauman.”
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” Murray says defensively, gesturing to himself before he looks around at the others, grinning awkwardly. “I mean— It was obvious to all of us, was it not?”
“Who fucking cares,” Robin yells, her arms dropping. Her eyes sting with tears, and her voice is rough. It startles them all. She can’t remember the last time she yelled out of anger, out of rage. “It’s not fucking yours to laugh about, alright, it’s not fucking funny.”
He’s staring back at her, and his eyes have narrowed a little, like he’s detecting, like he knows. And Robin feels like she’s going to be sick. Her throat tightens.
“There’s something fucking wrong with you,” she says, and her voice trembles. “You— You go around fucking inserting yourself into people’s lives and doing anything you can to fuck them up, and you— you take, like, pride in it, like it’s something to be fucking proud of, but it’s not.”
She knows she’s rambling, but she can’t help it, can’t stop herself. She doesn’t even feel like she’s in her own body, and she doesn’t think she’s ever been this angry at someone.
“Nobody finds it fucking funny, okay, it’s fucking weird, that you think it’s okay to sit at a dinner table and tell two people that they should— should fuck each other, like it’s any of your fucking business, like it’s any of our fucking business,” she adds, gesturing to the room, to the others that are sitting, watching, in silence. “It wasn’t even that you said, like, it’s obvious that they like each other, or that they’re crushing, you went straight for who should put their dick in who, and it’s fucking weird.”
She’s breathing hard, panting, her chest heaving, and a tear falls down her cheek. She wipes it away so hard it hurts.
“It’s fucking weird,” she says again, her voice breaking. “That you think it’s fine to say shit like that to anyone, and that you think it’s fine that you— you encouraged two sixteen-year-olds to have sex in your own fucking house, and that you knew she had a boyfriend—”
”Robin,” Nancy interrupts, her voice soft and tentative, and Robin explodes.
“Don’t you fucking talk to me!” she yells, turning to Nancy, who jumps and ducks her head, looking down and sobbing, but Robin doesn’t care. She’s shaking, her hands in tight fists by her sides, and she takes a trembling breath. “He’s my best—”
She chokes, stepping back and wiping her face, rubbing her nose against the back of her hand, and her vision blurs with tears. She glances away from Nancy’s shaking shoulders, looks at Jonathan, whose head is lowered a little bit. His eyes are closed like he’s trying to pretend he isn’t here, like he’s trying to hide in plain sight, and Robin’s always kind of liked him just as a fellow freak, but she hates him. She hates him. She hates him.
She tears her eyes away from him and finds Argyle on the other sofa, sitting on the very edge of the cushion, his hair fallen forward over his arms. His hands are hanging between his knees, his fingers tangled, and his knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, but he nods a little when their eyes meet.
“The first time I said I love you to him, he laughed,” Robin says, her voice breaking a little, and she can’t look away from Argyle, like she’s talking only to him, like he’s the only one listening. “He didn’t— He didn’t believe me, he didn’t know what to think, or— or say, and I…”
And Argyle kind of looks like he’s going to cry too, like he’s feeling everything Robin is feeling, like he knows the ache in her chest. Robin blinks tears out of her eyes, and she finally looks away from him, looking at Nancy.
Who, if Robin is honest, used to be beautiful to her. Her crush was just barely beginning to blossom, but she doesn’t care anymore.
“You did that,” she says coldly. Nancy’s eyes flutter at her like she’s begging, shining with tears. “You and his parents and Tommy fucking Hagan, you did that.”
She exhales shakily, her jaw clenching as Nancy covers her face with a hand, hiding her tears, and she blinks hard, forcing more tears out of her eyes.
“Argyle,” she says as she turns away, and Argyle stands with a soft, “Yup.”
Jonathan says Argyle’s name softly, pleadingly, as he moves to follow Robin to the front door, and Robin hasn’t even thought to say anything to him, can’t even think of what she would say to him. Argyle apparently can’t either, because he just mutters a quiet, “Nah, man,” and he follows Robin out, a gentle hand on her back.
She’s crying again as they go outside. The sky is dimming, warm shades of red and orange and pink that she would usually appreciate, would usually stop to admire, but it’s blurred in her eyes. She wipes her face as she sees the drags in the gravel from the tires of Steve’s car, and her heart aches for him, and for Eddie, and she still feels fucking nauseated.
Argyle is quiet. He turns off the radio as he turns the van on, as Robin buckles herself in, and she closes her eyes, relaxing into her seat and exhaling slowly, trying to ease her nausea. She likes Argyle’s van. It always smells a little smokey, of vague weed and incense, but it also just smells like Argyle. Warm and soft and sweet.
There are colorful seat covers in the front, mismatched and faded from the sunlight, and there are sprigs of rosemary hanging from the rear-view mirror, strung up by carefully woven strings. The dashboard is littered with stickers, colorful and silly, and Robin likes looking at them; she’d placed a few from her own collection as Argyle watched with a bright grin a few weeks ago. There’s Ms Pac-Man with googly eyes that bounce when they drive over particularly rough roads. There are scratch ‘n sniff stickers with different foods on them, popcorn and candies and peanut butter, and a few stickers stolen from the movies at Family Video the very edges still stiff and hovering from where Argyle and Jonathan had picked them off. A bright green circle that reads HORROR and another, red, that says ROMANCE.
The van is always cluttered, old receipts and takeout bags on the ground, forgotten jackets and scarves in the back. But Robin loves it here.
She covers her face as the van starts to move, taking a shuddering breath. Her chest is tight, and it doesn’t feel like she’s getting enough oxygen, like her lungs can’t fill all the way.
“Robbie,” Argyle says lightly, gently. “Where should I be going?”
“I don’t know,” Robin says weakly, her voice muffled behind her hands. “I don’t— I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Argyle says softly. “That’s fine.”
And he drives.
Robin lowers her hands after a while to look out the window, watching the world go by in blurred shades of orange and pink and green and yellow. There aren’t very many cars all the way out here, and it’s oddly freeing, watching the empty road. But Robin finds herself looking for Eddie’s van, searching the road and the sidelines where he and Steve might have pulled over. She doesn’t see them.
The sky blurs even more when her eyes flood with tears, and she thinks briefly that it looks like a painting, like messy watercolor spilled on a paper, carelessly tossed together.
“Hey,” Argyle says after a while when Robin sniffles, wiping her face. “You okay?”
“Uhm,” Robin says shakily, dropping her hands and taking a breath. “I, uhm…”
Her throat is tight, and she swallows, blinking tears out of her eyes. She can feel Argyle looking at her again, glancing at her as he drives down the empty road, and it’s the same as it felt earlier. Like Argyle’s gaze is something solid, something Robin can rest on.
Robin squeezes her eyes shut, covering her face again, and her breaths come out sharply, stifled but gasping.
“You gonna throw up?” Argyle asks, his voice quiet like he’s scared of startling her. “Should I pull over?”
“I don’t— I don’t know,” Robin gasps, dropping her hand and pressing it to her leg as she leans over, taking a deep breath, but she still doesn’t get enough oxygen. “Fuck, I…”
Argyle lets out a quiet Okay under his breath, and then he’s pulling over along the side of the road, and Robin kind of feels fucking stupid. This hasn’t happened in so long, she hadn’t even thought about it as a possibility, but it is. It’s happening.
She can’t fucking breath, like something is wrapped around her chest too tightly, and her vision is blurring too much for her to see clearly, and she might be fucking dying—
“Hey,” Argyle’s voice says, suddenly on Robin’s right, leaning into the car to unbuckle her seatbelt. “Friend,” he sing-songs, gently touching her legs to turn her to face him. “You gotta breathe, my guy.”
Robin gasps something unintelligible, but Argyle nods his head at her.
“You can,” he says lightly, like it’s all fine. “You been doin’ it your whole life, Robbie-Bobbie, you can breathe just fine.”
She can’t even tell him about the time in fourth grade that Ruby Paulson stuck a plastic bag over her head and she almost fucking died, would have if the teacher hadn’t heard her screaming and come to rip it open. And she can’t even think about how that doesn’t even really feel like what’s happening right now. The bag had felt different; she could breathe, just tiny ins and outs with thin plastic filling her mouth.
She thinks she is breathing right now. She thinks. But her throat feels dry, like she’s panting, and she’s a little lightheaded, like she’s holding her breath, and she can barely even feel her own arms and legs.
“All the way into your lovely lungs,” Argyle continues, pressing his hand against Robin’s stomach, and her hands find it, gripping it tightly like it’ll keep her steady. “So you get some oxygen. Then the oxygen gets into your blood, and it goes all the way to your squishy brain, right, I’m pretty sure that’s how that works.”
Robin drops her head, squeezing her eyes shut, and she presses Argyle’s hand against her sternum more firmly, focusing on the way it feels. Broad and strong and warm even over the fabric of her sweater.
“Oxygen is real helpful, man,” Argyle says, and he sounds like he always does, like he’s a few miles short of Mars, but his voice is kind of softer, gentle as Robin tries to catch her breath. “Helps you think ‘nd stuff. Makes your brain work. Makes your eyes green, I’m pretty sure.”
Robin exhales sharply, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, and she lifts her head to look at him, but he’s just smiling brightly at her, and oh. He’s clever.
Robin scoffs, shaking her head as she tries to take a slow breath, and Argyle tilts his head fondly, grinning, and his other hand lifts to tuck her hair back gently.
“There she is,” he says lightly.
He’s gentle as Robin leans against his chest with a heavy exhale, still catching her breath. He runs a hand over the top of her head, and he sways back and forth with her playfully, humming some song that he plays on tape all the time, and Robin lets him. Lets him cradle her like a baby, lets him brush her hair back, lets him be silly when she can finally breathe, her lungs filling all the way and then exhaling slowly.
“Okay?” Argyle asks softly.
“Mm.”
She can hear Argyle’s heartbeat, can feel it against her cheek, steady and quiet.
“Tired,” she mumbles.
“I mean,” he says dryly. “It makes sense. Pretty emotional day, huh?”
“Yeah,” Robin says, and then she’s crying, bursting into tears and gasping as she sobs.
“That wasn’t supposed to make you cry,” Argyle says abruptly, panicked, and it makes her giggle even through her tears. She lifts her head, mourning the loss of his pulse for a moment as she looks up at him, and he looks so worried it’s almost funny, his eyes wide as he reaches for her, as he wipes her tears. “Oh no. Oh no.”
“I’m okay,” she says quietly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, and she glances past him at the dimming sky, at the swirling watercolor. She wonders where Steve and Eddie are right now. She wonders what the others are doing, if they’re still sitting in that awful, tense silence.
She’s quiet, letting Argyle caress her cheeks like he’s marvelling at her, like she’s something worth marvelling at. His hands are warm. They always are. She likes holding them during movie nights, tucked between him and Steve, holding his arm and resting her head on Steve’s shoulder, happily trapped between the warmth of their bodies.
Argyle is quiet too. He’s wiping her tears away so gently it feels unfamiliar. Like he’s scared of breaking her, of cracking her skin like thin glass.
“…Do you think I was too obvious?” Robin asks quietly. Argyle tucks some of her hair behind her ear, humming.
“I got it,” he says softly. “‘Cause I’m the same. I don’t know about the others, though.”
She blinks at him, her vision still a little blurred from her tears.
“Doesn’t matter,” Argyle says with a little shrug. “‘S a done deal, right? You’re still alive.”
She’s still alive.
She falls against him again with a sigh.
“Can we go to my place?” she asks quietly.
“Sounds good, my friend.”
Neither of them moves.
—
The house is dark when they finally get there. Robin’s parents are out of town again, but the house somehow doesn’t feel quieter when they’re not there. When it’s empty.
Argyle is sweet. He helps Robin inside because she apparently can’t fucking walk, his arms gentle around her waist as he tugs her up the front steps. He flicks on the light and guides her to lean against the front door. She watches as he pulls her shoes off and sets them aside like he’s being careful, like everything is delicate in this house.
Everything feels delicate in this house. It’s oddly comforting that Argyle seems to notice it too.
The odd sort of tension that lingers in the air even when Robin’s parents are gone. Like there’s a mist, thin as glass, just nearing the point of shattering. Thin as it is, it’s always heavy on Robin’s shoulders. It’s always worn her down. Made her tired.
It happens the moment she steps inside the house. She hates this house. The memories that hover in the hallway like the framed photographs on the walls, like scars. Bruises that refuse to fade.
She lets her eyes close as Argyle leads her into the living room, letting him guide her gently, trusting him not to walk her into any walls or furniture. He doesn’t. She makes it to the sofa with unbruised shins, which is better than she usually does on her own.
Argyle sets her down gently, tucking her hair back and looking at her as her eyes open. She smiles weakly, and he tilts his head at her like he’s fond.
“Should I call Steve?” she asks quietly as he’s taking off his flannel and tossing it to hang over the armrest of the sofa. He’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, tie-dyed colorful but faded; it’s pale in a way that makes his skin look even darker, even more golden.
“If you’re up for it,” he says, pausing, looking at her like he’s reading her face, like he’s checking her energy level. “I bet he’d like to hear your voice.”
Robin looks at him. And she gets up after a moment with a breath, letting her remaining energy surge through her. Argyle smiles brightly, and Robin could swear it lights up the entire living room.
“I’ll make some food,” he says cheerfully, touching her back as he steps past her to head to the kitchen, and she suppresses a smile as he hears him going down the hall, already humming to himself.
She dials Steve’s number, leaning against the wall by the phone, but there’s no answer. She hangs up, pausing for a moment, racking her brain for Eddie’s number, and then she dials that next, slow and careful, her eyebrows furrowed in focus. Steve’s number comes to her naturally, like muscle memory. Maybe Eddie’s will come to her that naturally too after a while.
She waits as it rings twice, and in the middle of the third, there’s a click.
“Munsons,” Eddie says quietly. Robin closes her eyes.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hey, Buck,” Eddie says, his voice lightening like he’s relaxed. “What’s up?”
“Uh, Steve didn’t answer his phone, I assumed he’s with you?”
“Yeah, he’s right here,” Eddie says, and Robin can hear his smile in his voice.
“Uh, how are— how are you?” she asks quickly, before Eddie can hand Steve the phone. “Are you okay?”
Eddie is quiet.
“Honestly, Rob,” he says softly. “I’m better than I’ve been in a good fuckin’ while.”
Robin smiles at the floor, twisting the phone cord around her finger.
“That’s good, Eds.”
“I’ll hand you to Steve,” Eddie says, his voice still light and soft, and he sounds fucking happy. Happier than Robin thinks she’s ever heard him. She hums.
“Hey, Robbie.”
“Hey, babe.”
“I kissed him.”
He whispers it, excited and almost childish, and Robin lets out a sudden laugh, grinning. Steve giggles, and she can practically see him tucking the phone against his ear, turning away from Eddie’s curious gaze.
“How was it?”
“Amazing,” Steve gushes, his voice too close to the microphone, which just proves Robin right, that he’s hiding away with the phone as close as possible, away from Eddie’s prying ears. “I’ll tell you later.”
“So I take it you’re good.”
“Very, yes.”
“Okay, good.”
“Sorry we left so… abruptly,” Steve says, his voice softening. “We didn’t… wanna see anyone.”
“No, that’s okay,” Robin says, shaking her head like he can see her. “It’s… It’s okay, it’s probably best that you guys left.”
“What happened when we were gone?” Steve asks curiously. “Was everyone just…”
“Uh,” Robin says with a sigh, letting her head fall back to the wall, looking at the ceiling. The overhead light is off, and she can see fine right now from the large window on the other side of the room, but it’s quickly getting darker as the sun disappears. She’ll turn on a lamp later; she hates the overhead light. “I kinda… yelled at Murray. And Nancy.”
“Shit,” Steve says.
“Like… yelled. Swore ‘nd cried ‘nd…” She trails off, pausing, remembering it. It feels blurry. “I think I might have outed myself to them.”
“Shit,” Steve says again, and it sounds firmer this time, realer. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says softly, closing her eyes again, focusing on the sound of Steve breathing, and she lets herself feel it. “I’m actually… I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it… I don’t know, I asked Argyle if I was too obvious, and he said he got it, but I don’t know if the others…” She pauses again, taking a breath. “I think Murray got it,” she says quietly. “But I don’t really care.”
“Fuck him,” Steve says sharply. “He’s a fucking bastard.”
“Fucking bastard,” Robin repeats. nodding, and they’re quiet for a moment, just breathing together.
“...Argyle?” Steve says after taking a breath, and Robin blinks in confusion before she remembers, nodding again.
“Yeah, he— he took me home.” She pauses for a moment, listening closely, and she can hear him in the kitchen, humming and doing something at the stove. “He’s making some food right now. Neither of us finished eating at dinner.”
Steve lets out a soft laugh.
“Eddie’s making food right now too.”
Robin’s eyes sting inexplicably, and she squeezes them shut, rubbing her forehead.
“I love you, man,” she says softly, and she hears Steve let out a shaky breath.
“God, I love you too,” he says, his voice quiet. “I love you so much.”
Robin sniffles, blinking tears back, but one escapes and she leaves it alone. Lets it fall down her cheek and slip over the curve of her jaw and down her neck.
“Will you come over tomorrow?” Steve asks softly, and he sounds so small suddenly, soft and vulnerable like he’s a child. “We can have, like, a movie night with Eddie and Argyle or something, just the four of us.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding even though he can’t see. “I’ll be there tomorrow, I’ll ask Argyle if he wants to come. I assume he will.”
“Okay,” Steve says softly, and it sounds like he’s lingering, stalling.
They talk for a little while longer. Robin can hear Eddie in the background, singing obnoxiously in a way that makes Steve giggle between words, and it makes her grin stupidly at the ceiling. She hasn’t heard Steve giggle in fucking ages.
She sighs when they hang up, lingering by the phone for a moment more before she moves and turns on the lamp by the sofa, filling the room with a steady, warm glow.
The light in the kitchen is less golden. It’s brighter than Robin would like, but nobody else ever seems to notice it. Argyle doesn’t either, swaying as he works at the counter, his hair swinging in the air behind him in a way that’s kind of graceful. Elegant.
Robin slides into a seat at the island, watching him.
“I’m back,” she says lightly. He turns to look over his shoulder, already smiling, and it feels oddly domestic; it’s like she’s just come home from work, tired and ready for the weekend, watching her husband as he finishes up cooking. It takes her a moment to realize what an absurd thought it is, the reversal of their roles as well as the fact that she might even consider being married to a man, but there’s a comfort in the absurdity, and she allows herself it.
“You got good timing, Robbie Bobbie,” Argyle says, looking back at what he’s doing. “Check it out.”
He does something for a moment longer before he turns around, reaching to set a bowl down in front of her with a flamboyant flourish. “Pasta alla Gutiérrez.”
She grins tiredly, looking at the bowl, and it looks fucking professional, even with the fork already sticking out of it. Perfectly swirled in the curve of the bowl, the sauce a pale red and creamy, spotted with chopped mushrooms and tomato skins, dusted with parmesan that Robin forgot was even in the fridge.
“And here I thought you could only make pizza.”
“Ah,” Argyle says, nodding sagely as he turns to get his own bowl before he joins her at the island, standing across from her instead of sitting. “But to possess the knowledge of pizza, one must possess the knowledge of many delightful treats. Especially Italian food, I think.”
Robin is laughing lightly, picking up her fork and swirling it in the pasta, mixing the cheese in.
“How are the boys?” Argyle asks when she doesn’t say anything, and Robin glances at him, smiling a little.
“They’re good, actually,” she says, looking at her food. “They’re really good.”
He’s quiet, and she can feel his eyes on her as she stirs her food some more, looking at it. It looks nice, the sauce spotted with oregano or something, but her appetite is nowhere to be found.
“How are you?” Argyle asks, and she lifts her head, blinking as she meets his eye. He looks sweet, looking at her curiously, kindly, and she pauses.
“I’m fine,” she says lightly. He just looks at her.
And she knows she’s always been very transparent, but she hadn’t known it was that bad. Bad enough for Argyle to read something on her face that she didn’t even know she was feeling.
She scoffs, shrugging weakly, and he smiles crookedly at her, gesturing vaguely with his fork.
“What’s goin’ on in that head o’ yours?”
She shrugs again, pausing, taking a breath.
“I think I’m still… angry,” she says hesitantly. “At— At Nancy and Jonathan, but I think… I think most of it is at Murray right now.”
Just saying it makes her heart beat a little faster, makes her hands shake as she holds her bowl in them like she’s trying to steady herself.
“He— He had no right to say any of that,” she says, her voice wavering. “You know? It was just…” She pauses, looking at her food. “Shit like that is why queer people aren’t… safe.”
She falls quiet, listening to him breathe, listening to him chew, and she can see him nodding in her periphery.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “...Being queer is really easy until straight people make it hard.”
Robin blinks. Looks at him.
“...Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding knowingly, and he swirls the pasta in his bowl like Robin’s lack of appetite is contagious. His mouth twists thoughtfully as he watches it, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so serious. “I think… I think I’ve always known I’m queer, but I didn’t always know I was different, y’know?”
She looks at him, and she nods. He’s leaning over the counter, his elbows resting on it, and his hair is cascading over his shoulders. She kind of wants to tuck it behind his ear for him.
“And it was straight people that made me realize that, y’know, that I wasn’t normal. Whatever that means.”
“I just don’t get why it’s such a big fucking deal,” Robin bursts, dropping her fork, and he looks at her. “Nobody should care about it, it’s so…”
She exhales shakily, resting her elbows on the counter and rubbing her face harshly as her eyes start to sting again. Her voice is muffled when she speaks again, unsteady and broken.
“I’m an entire person,” she says adamantly, and she drops her hands, but her vision is a little blurred. “And to them, my— my queerness cancels everything out, and it’s fucking bullshit.”
She looks at him. He kind of looks like he’s going to cry, and she suddenly feels bad for it, for letting her emotions bubble out of her like this, but then he smiles, and he’s nodding, and her chest feels warm. She’s never talked about this with anyone, never actually said any of this out loud.
“I think it should be a big deal,” Argyle says lightly. “But not a big bad deal, you know? A big good deal.”
“A big good deal,” she repeats, steadying herself. He nods again.
“‘Cause it’s a big deal to me,” he says, stirring his food again. “For me, it…”
He goes quiet, looking down almost sullenly, but Robin can tell that he’s just thinking, sorting words out in his mind before he puts them in the air between them.
“...For me, it… it’s anything that’s, like, outside of what’s fine,” Argyle says, dropping his fork to gesture vaguely, motioning like there’s a box in front of him. “Y’know? Anything that’s not normal, or— or acceptable. And, like, around here, somewhere like this,” he says with another vague gesture, motioning to the world outside, “I… I stand out, right?”
“Right,” she says, listening, finally taking a bite of her pasta. It’s good. Still warm.
“I’m brown, and that alone makes me stand out around here, which…” He shrugs indifferently, like it’s a fact he’s surrendered to. “But that’s queer. For me.”
He pauses, thinking again, his mouth twisting in a way that’s wholly endearing, and she watches him think. She kind of wishes she could see his brain, could see his synapses firing like cogs and wheels turning, which is insane. Queer.
“Everything about me is queer,” Argyle says finally, resolutely, with a little nod as he meets her eyes. She nods. “Which is cool, man, y’know, that’s who I am, right? And it— it, like, radiates out of me in a way that everyone can see, even if I tried to hide it, or— or pretend I was something different, right? People would still know, it’s like they can sense it.”
“Yeah,” Robin says softly, nodding, and she gets it. She’s only ever actually told one person, but it’s like the whole world knows, like she doesn’t even have to say it out loud. Maybe it’s just in her head, but she could swear people know just by looking at her, she could swear the fucking light posts know.
“I could pretend,” Argyle says pointedly, his eyes widening in a silly, exaggerated expression that makes Robin smile. “I could, like, cut my hair, and I could wear… beige, or something. Right? But that’s not me, man, you know?”
She nods again, tilting her head. She can’t even imagine him with short hair, even long short hair, like Steve’s. She can’t imagine him in beige or navy blue or anything else that’s plain. She can’t imagine him as anything but himself, vibrant and loud and beautiful.
“And I’m not gonna hide away who I am just so other people feel more comfortable looking at me,” Argyle says, nodding to himself as he takes a bite of his pasta, slurping a noodle between his lips. “That’s not cool, y’know, I wouldn’t want anybody else to do that.”
“Yeah,” Robin says softly, looking at her food.
“So,” Argyle says, voice muffled from his food. “My queerness is a big deal to me, y’know? A big good deal.”
“A big good deal,” Robin repeats absently, nodding, twisting her fork in her fingers.
“It’s in everything about me,” Argyle says. She looks up at him curiously, her head still tilted down to the counter. She swings her feet in the air, kicking at her seat in a way her parents would scold her for. “It’s not just who I wanna kiss and tender sex, right?”
Robin snorts, dropping her head, and Argyle is grinning brightly when she looks up at him again, his eyes sparkling like that was his intent, like he was just trying to get her to smile.
“Right,” she says lightly even though she doesn’t really get it. Queerness is all about who kisses who, who fucks who, at least it seems to be for straight people. Robin’s heard the way they talk about others. He looks like a cocksucker.
To them, laced fingers and tender gazes are just as lewd and vulgar as the filthiest of sex acts. And Robin’s never understood it. How something so sweet can be seen as debauchery.
“It’s— It’s in everything,” Argyle says. “It’s in my race and my gender, and my— my personality, and just… everything, you know?”
He must see the blank confusion on her face, and he laughs softly, pausing and looking up before he speaks.
“My ancestors didn’t have shit like man and woman,” he says after a moment, setting his forearms on the countertop, around his bowl with his fingers laced in front of it. She glances as she processes his words, looks at his woven bracelets that are too loose, the knots frayed and the cords faded. “That was… forced onto us, right? By colonizers.”
“Right,” she says, meeting his gaze again, listening.
“So when I do stuff that’s— that’s, like, nonconforming, right, like grow my hair out or wear makeup or jewellery and stuff, I feel like…” He trails off, looking away, and his fingers unlace so he can gesture vaguely, his hands raised like he’s holding something Robin can’t see, something only he can feel. “Like I’m connecting with my ancestors, and my culture, you know, even if I don’t know anything about it because it’s… it’s too far away.”
He sounds sad suddenly. Mournful over the loss of his history, and Robin’s chest aches for him.
“...And that has nothing to do with who you wanna kiss or tender sex,” she says, and his face brightens as he nods, eyes shining.
“Exactly,” he says.
She smiles, twisting her fork again.
“If… If there’s no man or woman in your culture,” she says hesitantly, glancing up at him. “What is there?”
He hums lightly, thoughtfully, taking another bite, and she copies him. Her pasta is getting cold now, but it’s still good.
“I think there is the concept of gender,” he says. “But it’s a lot less… strict. I guess.”
“Strict,” Robin repeats absently.
“There are so many rules in gender,” Argyle complains, wrinkling his nose distastefully. Robin smiles.
“Yeah, you hate rules.”
“I do,” he says adamantly, and she laughs. “Especially when they’re fucking asinine.”
“Asinine.”
“Mm.” He takes a bite. “Men and women have roles and expectations that they need to meet, and if they don’t, then they’re doing it wrong.”
Robin blinks. Nods.
“Back in my ancestors’ day, people could be whatever they wanted,” Argyle says, and he sounds wistful, like he misses it, like he was there. “They could do whatever they could, you know, if someone was good at hunting or something but they had tits, that wasn’t a problem.”
Robin smiles, amused by the way Argyle says tits. It’s such an Eddie thing to say.
“And then white people came along,” he continues. “Forced women into dresses and made men cut their hair, and…”
He falls quiet, looking at his food sullenly, absently picking at one of his nails.
“It’s shitty,” Robin says. Argyle nods, lips quirking into a smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s shitty.”
They’re quiet.
“So, if you’re…” Robin hesitates. “If you’re not a man or a woman.”
Argyle hums affirmatively, looking at her, and she doesn’t have to finish the question.
“I don’t know,” he says lightly, like it doesn’t really matter. “I’m just me, I think.”
She blinks, looking at him, and it never occurred to her that someone could be neither. Or both. Or whatever it is that Argyle is. She isn’t really sure, but she likes it.
“I’ve never really found a word that fits,” Argyle says softly. “I’m… Hm.”
He smiles to himself, standing up straight as he looks at the ceiling, thinking, and his hands lay flat on the counter, fingers spreading.
“I’ve never had to put this into words.”
“You don’t have to,” Robin says, looking up at him, resting her chin on her palm. “If you don’t wanna talk about it. I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity is healthy, my friend,” he says, nodding. “I don’t mind. I’m not a man,” he says thoughtfully, nodding again. “I’m… I’m a dude, but not how, like, Eddie and Steve call each other dude, right? More like— like how I call you dude. You know?”
She blinks.
“I think so?” she says hesitantly. “Maybe?”
He thinks again, still smiling absently.
“I would describe myself as woman-adjacent,” he says finally, nodding to himself again.
“Huh,” she says. “Okay.”
He’s smiling, waiting for her as she processes it, as she looks at him differently. Woman-adjacent. Something else. Argyle.
She looks away with a shy smile, taking another bite of her pasta.
“Is that cool?” Argyle asks.
“Yeah,” she says, looking at him. “Yeah, of course it’s cool. I just… I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it much.”
“What do you think?” he asks.
“...Does it matter what I think?”
He makes a sound like he’s shrugging, taking a bite of his food and looking at her.
“I care what you think,” he says easily, his mouth full, and it sounds so casual. Like it doesn’t make her stomach flutter. She doesn’t think anyone has ever said anything like that to her before. God knows her parents haven’t. They’ve never been bothered to hear anything she has to say. They’ve fucking specifically told her they don’t care. “What do you think?”
She looks at him. He leans back down to the counter, setting his forearms on it, and his hair falls over his shoulders again.
“I think you’re really cool,” Robin says softly.
His face lights up. His eyes shine and he grins brightly, and Robin tilts her head fondly.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “You’re like… You’re like a breath of fresh air or something.”
“I like that.”
“You…” She stops herself, looking at the counter, at his hands, and she takes a moment to think about it. “Everything’s always seemed so straight? And I— I didn’t even realize that it bothered me, you know, but around here, it’s all… You’re either gay or straight, and you’re a man or a woman, and there’s no— no gray area, you know?”
He nods, listening to her, watching as she gestures vaguely, her bracelets clicking against each other. She’s always talked with her hands, but he doesn’t seem to mind the way her parents do.
“I didn’t know that there were… more options,” she says awkwardly. “It’s… I’m a lesbian. And I— I know that, it’s, like, one of the only things in existence that I actually know, I— I’ve only ever liked women and— and woman-adjecent people, you know, but I…”
She glances, and he’s smiling at her. She looks back down again, listing a hand to rub her face as she thinks, as she tries to put whatever is swirling in her chest into words, and he waits for her patiently.
“I did ballet when I was a kid,” she says abruptly, looking up at him, and he nods, taking a bite of his food. “I— There’s a point to this, I swear, just—”
“Even if it didn’t have a point, I’d listen,” he interrupts. “I like listening to you.”
She looks at him, her face flushing with heat, and she has to force herself to look away to get back on track.
“Okay, I… I did ballet for a while, kinda, like, off and on for a few years, and I— I quit when I was fourteen just ‘cause it, like… it wasn’t really for me anymore, and I— It was taking a lot out of me, I guess, but— Anyway, I…” She waves her hands to clear the air in front of her. “I really liked it, you know, it was fun— I had a shit ton of energy, and it was really good for, like, getting it all out before I went home, and it usually didn’t even matter that my spacial awareness and my depth perception are shit, because everything was timed, like I’d do three pirouettes, and then stop, and I didn’t have to worry about running into anyone because it was all, like, choreographed, and— Okay, sorry, so…”
She stops herself again, rubbing her face harshly as she lets out a sharp exhale.
“It was hard sometimes,” she says finally. “Remembering all the moves, and stretching every day, and— and keeping my chin up, and my shoulders down, and…” She demonstrates, lifting her chin, pushing her shoulders back and down to elongate her neck, elegant and dainty. “It was meant to look so… effortless, you know, but every muscle was— was tense and perfectly placed, and…”
She demonstrates again, absently, taking up third position, one arm outstretched delicately to her side as the other hovers above the counter top, her elbow and wrist bent, her hand graceful and soft, practiced and intentional.
“That’s how it feels,” she says, dropping her arms and looking up at Argyle, who’s watching her with an unreadable look in his eyes, his head tilted. “Being a woman.”
He nods, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Like… Like it’s all choreographed, but I don’t know the moves, and I… I do like feminine things? Like— Like makeup, and I wear skirts on occasion, and I like gossiping and shopping and all the stereotypical shit, but I… To be an actual woman, it feels like I have to try so fucking hard.”
Her throat tightens, and she stops, blinking her eyes as they start to burn, and the look in Argyle’s eyes intensifies, and it’s something like empathy, like he’s feeling for her, like he shares the storm with her.
“Every time someone… someone looks at me, or stares at me, or tells me that my clothes are too masculine, or my hair is too short, or my makeup is too messy, or my legs are too wide when I sit, or I’m talking too loud, or I’m being too vulgar, or—” She stops herself. Her hands are shaking.
“It just…” She tries again after taking a moment. “It feels like my ballet instructor coming up and… touching my chin to lift it, or pushing my shoulders down, or nudging my foot into the right position.”
She sighs shakily, setting her hands on the counter, and she feels bad that she hasn’t finished her food. It’s cold now, and she isn’t hungry at all, but Argyle made it for her.
“It feels like a performance,” she says finally, her voice quieter. “Like I’m pretending, I’m putting on a show, and it— it looks so easy for everyone else, for all the other girls, it just comes to them naturally, and I have no clue what I’m doing. I have to try, and I shouldn’t have to try.”
“So stop,” Argyle says gently, and she blinks. Looks at him. He shrugs lazily, matter-of-factly. “You stopped ballet because it wasn’t for you, right?”
“Yeah,” she says hesitantly. He gestures to her. There you go.
“I… I can’t just stop being a woman.”
“Why not?”
She blinks again, shrugging weakly.
“It… It’s what I am.”
Argyle pauses, his mouth twisting thoughtfully as he looks down again, and he sounds careful when he speaks again.
“...If you have to put in so much effort to be something, maybe you just aren’t meant to be that something.”
She looks at the counter. She can see his hands in her periphery, resting on the countertop, unmoving but placed in a way that’s kind of awkward, abnormal for him. Set apart and still like they’re in the process of a motion, like he’s about to reach out to her or something.
“...So I should be a man?” she says without looking up.
“If that’s what you are,” Argyle says lightly, easily. “If it’s… you know, what fits. Or you can try other stuff, or you can just… you know, you don’t really need a label or whatever.”
She looks up at him again, and her vision is a little blurry. She’s going to cry. She doesn’t want to cry, but she doesn’t think she can stop herself if the dam breaks.
“You can just be you,” Argyle says, his voice soft. “I think you’re pretty cool.”
Robin lets out a wet laugh, dropping her head, and the tears are falling before she can even think of anything to respond with. She covers her face, letting it wash over her, the gentle support that Argyle is giving her. She hasn’t felt it very many times in her life. Steve, bless his heart, is the first in her memory. His support was subtle, quiet, voiced in his casual disdain for Tammy Thompson, and Robin had laughed, but her eyes had burned and her heart had swelled, and she wanted to squeeze him breathless, because it was love. Singing like Kermit the Frog, sitting on the filthy floor of a public bathroom, covered in dry blood and fresh bruises. Love.
She falls against Argyle when he rounds the island and wraps his arms around her, letting her shoulders shake as she sobs.
He waits for her, rocking her back and forth like she’s a baby, running his hand over the top of her head, and she turns so she can hold onto him, her trembling hands grasping the fabric of his shirt weakly.
He holds her, and she lets herself melt into him, lets herself be held. She can’t hear herself, her voice muffled in his chest, her head filled with a white noise that silences the rest of the world around her, except the soft murmur of Argyle’s voice. She can’t quite understand what he’s saying, but she doesn’t think it matters; she knows what he means, knows by the gentle weight of his hands running over her back and head, knows by the soft whispery rumble of his voice. He untangles her hair.
She’s sniffling when she finally lifts her head, already lifting a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, but Argyle beats her to it. He’s gentle as he does it, skims his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe them clean, and her vision is blurry as she looks up at him, just enough that he looks a little out of focus. He looks dreamy, like he isn’t quite real, and it flips Robin fucking upside down.
Argyle is real. He feels like a figment of Robin’s fucking imagination— This perfect man.
No.
This perfect person.
Smiling down at Robin’s face, which is, no doubt, tear-streaked and red and disgusting, cradling her face with his palms to her cheeks, his head tilted like he’s fond, like he likes her in spite of it all.
Which is a crazy fucking thought. That she’s liked.
He’s quiet as she gathers herself, looking up at him, like he’s waiting patiently for her. She sniffles some more, takes a deep breath. Looks at his face because it makes her feel better for some reason. He just looks so kind.
She closes her eyes, and Argyle’s thumbs run over her cheeks, close enough to her eyes that they brush over her eyelashes gently; it feels like a light breeze, like she’s outside instead of in her kitchen. She savors it, exhaling slowly.
When she opens her eyes again, Argyle isn’t smiling anymore, but his expression isn’t any less light. He looks somehow thoughtful, scanning Robin’s face like he’s looking for something, and Robin’s chest aches.
She gazes at him. Her vision has cleared, and she can see every detail of his face, his eyelashes and the faint stubble that appears at the end of every day. His eyes are shining like he’s feeling everything Robin is feeling, and her stomach does a somersault.
Robin blinks up at him, pausing, and he waits for her, leaning against the counter, still close enough to hold her face. Her knees press to his legs, and she’s close enough to hear him breathing. It’s nice.
“Can I… Can I do something crazy?” she asks finally, her voice a little broken, whispery and quiet. Argyle smiles.
“I love crazy, man.”
Robin’s lips shift into a small smile, and she looks at him. He waits again, and her hands tighten on the fabric of his shirt, her fingers curling into it until she’s pulling at it, tugging him closer. He lets her.
He’s still smiling when their lips meet, and Robin feels kind of insane. She hasn’t kissed anyone since Raymond Millard in the ninth grade, and that had been an absolute shitshow. She’d cried after, and he’d told everyone there’d been tongue, which there wasn’t, and then Melissa Mackay had started calling her a slut, which somehow lasted all year until Olivia Bryson and David Reid were caught making out in the boys’ locker room during a basketball game. And it’s kind of insane that Robin is even thinking about this, because Argyle is still kissing her.
Their noses nudge against each other, and one of Argyle’s hands slips from Robin’s face to her neck, holding her so gently it feels fucking unreal— She doesn’t think anyone’s ever been this careful with her, doesn’t think it’s even ever occurred to her that she might deserve this tenderness that Argyle is giving her without a second thought.
It’s so quiet. She doesn’t know why that’s never occurred to her either, that kissing is a generally quiet activity. But neither of them are talking, which is a rare thing with the two of them, and Robin is so focussed on it all that her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. Her chin tilts up as her hands finally relax, her fingers unclenching and pressing to Argyle’s waist, holding him.
Argyle’s fingers push through her hair when they finally separate, and Robin can’t even open her eyes. She exhales shakily as Argyle holds her, his fingertips brushing over the back of her neck.
“...Do you wanna go over to Eddie’s tomorrow?” she asks abruptly, opening her eyes. “I— I forgot to ask, Steve asked if we’d wanna go over to watch a movie, just— just the four of us, and I said you’d probably wanna go, but I meant to ask—”
Argyle interrupts her with a chaste kiss, and he’s smiling again.
“I would love a chill movie night with the dudes,” he says, and her eyes flick down to watch his mouth as he speaks like she’s going to find his words written in the air between them. And it feels different somehow, different from all the other times she’s looked at his mouth. Different now that she knows what his lips feel like against her own. “You know what movie they’re gonna pick?”
“No idea,” Robin says absently.
“We’ll find out,” Argyle says sagely, nodding, and he’s still holding her, his hands cradling her head, and Robin had never thought much about the size of his hands, but she feels sheltered here, like his hands are caging her in, keeping her safe. “We can finally use that brownie mix in the pantry.”
“Yeah,” Robin says, blinking. “We’ll have to portion out Eddie’s share, though, he’d take all of them if he could.”
“The man’s a menace,” Argyle says fondly. “Maybe we can get another box before we go over.”
“Yeah,” Robin says again.
She falls forward, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to Argyle’s chest. She sighs heavily as his hand runs over the top of her head, his fingers threading through her hair carefully, and she turns so her mouth isn’t covered.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says, and her voice sounds small even to herself, weak and little and almost scared. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she furrows her eyebrows, but Argyle’s hand is unchanging, gentle and firm as he combs through her hair.
“Me either,” he says lightly. “I don’t think we need to know everything.”
Robin hums softly, unwilling to open her eyes just yet, and Argyle doesn’t make her. The sky is getting darker outside, and Robin only has the slightest clue of who she is, but somehow there’s more peace in her own not knowing than there was in knowing what she was expected to be. She doesn’t even know what color the sky is right now, but that’s okay too.
Their pasta is getting cold, but they can reheat it later. Argyle lets his head fall to Robin’s, and Robin can hear his heartbeat and feel the gentle up and down of his chest with his every breath, and she thinks she might be fine.