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Sean knows he’s lucky.

He’s lucky, for example, that he grew up tall and gangly, with narrow hips and easily-bound breasts. That people have seen him as a boy since he was a kid, getting  son -ed with his dirty face and bloody knees. That his mother doesn’t discrimate, just loves, doesn’t complain that her apparent daughter wears men’s clothes - it’s not like he’s butch, and he could with not too much trouble track down models in glossy magazine’s dressed the same. He likes his hair long anyway. 

“‘Stuff from the men’s section is better made, it’s more versatile,” he says with a smile, and his mother frowns fondly, rolling her eyes at the youth of today. 

When she asks him if he’s a lesbian, he answers that he likes men. Which is true. He never says no, after all. 

He’s lucky that his few friends don’t care that the girl in their group wears bandages around her chest and pitches her voice as low as it goes, that they’ll call him by his proper name and pronouns, not understanding it, exactly, but accepting it all the same.

He’s lucky that his dysphoria has never been too bad, that binding and the right clothes, the right little words are generally enough for him. He’s versatile, he can work with what he’s got. 

He’s not sure about how sex is going to work. He hopes it will be fun finding out. 

He’s lucky that, when Charles and Erik come for him, Charles isn’t judicious with his telepathy, that he plucks the right name out of Sean’s head with a knowing smile, and Erik doesn’t question it.

He’s lucky.