(ftm dennis)
dennis whitaker loved michael robinavitch. looked up to him. trusted him. would've worshipped him on his knees if he were a statue, or sat front row in his class if he were a professor.
there was no playbook or manual on how to be a man- a *good* man, that is- and until now, dennis had been flying solo. his father berrated his mother, his uncle was dead, and his brothers had bullied him since the day he was born their sister. they left only hurt in their wake- these couldn't be men, he thought. he'd been taught that man was the protector, yet they all seemed devoid of that quality.
no, dennis had to find a real man. only a real man could teach him how to leave his past behind, locked in the cupboard with stale dresses, moth eaten long ago.
and then robby appeared, and dennis found his blueprint. tall, commanding, and effortlessly respected in his department, a leader through and through. he was loved by all, kind to all, and his protection of his patients mixed with his empathy and tact for those who grieved. he was smart and personable and truly, completely, in control. *this* was what it meant to be a man. this was who dennis needed to become.
so dennis set about his mission. he bound his chest tighter- real men like robby seemed completely flat. he copied his words identically in the wake of death- real men like robby knew how to take care of people after tragedy. he even tried imitating his stance, knowing this was how real men handled themselves.
he lived for robby's praise, getting a head rush at every "good job, whitaker", a warm chest whenever he heard "nice catch!". every smile and pat on the shoulder had him stand straighter and hold his head high- he was succeeding. he was finally becoming the perfect man, just like robby. soon no one would ever be able to tell what he'd been before, because he would be just like robby. he'd finally be a real man.
but then his shift would end, and he'd sneak off to the eighth floor. and his chest would be aching and throbbing from his binder (robby's chest didn't ache or have to be contained), and in the mirror he'd see a thin face and tired eyes (robby was healthy and strong and attractive), and his hands would tremble from the cold and hunger (robby, the real man, would've been able to withstand this and tough it out).
the pride would come tumbling down. he was failing in every regard. every shining quality robby possessed was nowhere to be found in his body- he could worship on his knees in front of the man for years, but no matter how benevolent robby may be, dennis was not good enough to recieve those same accolades.
when dennis looked in the mirror, he saw even more of a failure than before. he had the manual in front of him- great and resplendent attending michael robinavitch- and yet, he was still unable to get it right. all dennis saw was someone who would never be a true man.
it overcame him all at once, and he swung his fist into the wall until his knuckles cracked and bled, liquid looking black in the low light. maybe he really was no better than the violence of his father or brothers. maybe that was all he was ever going to be.
