Chapter Text
Gravesfield is a tiny blot of a town. Hunter slumps in his seat, knees shoved against the glovebox, and stares sullenly out the window as the comically short main street rolls by. Three turns later they’re out in the woods, dappled late-afternoon sunlight breaking through the shifting mass of leaves.
“Is he a hermit or something?” That would be just his luck, to end up stuck in some dusty old log cabin all summer with the uncle he barely knows.
“He lives in the parsonage,” his dad says, squinting at the approaching intersection. “On the church grounds. It’s really not that far away from town.”
He turns left, then left again. The woods open up to reveal a carefully manicured lawn, in the middle of which sits an absolutely historical-looking old church. The modest parking lot beside it is completely incongruous. People should be pulling up to it on horseback, not in lightly used sedans.
Behind the church, tucked into the woods a bit, is the parsonage. It’s not quite a log cabin, but not much better: an immaculately whitewashed, postage stamp-sized clapboard house, one story, with a sharply peaked roof. Hunter digs his phone out of his pocket and glances at it, not expecting much.
His expectations are thoroughly met. He’s got two bars. This place does not look like it’s ever heard of wifi.
A gravel driveway leads from the far corner of the paved parking lot up to the front of the house. Hunter’s knees - bare, because Dad made him wear a skirt up here - jolt against the glovebox as they make their slow way up it, tires crunching all the while.
Before the car even stops, Hunter unbuckles himself. He steps out as soon as it’s safe, before his dad even cuts the engine, and goes to stand by the trunk. Dad sits for a moment, then pops the trunk.
Hunter lifts out his suitcase and makes his way up to the narrow porch, leaving the open trunk for his dad to deal with. The suitcase’s wheels are no match for the gravel and grass; he drags it more than wheels it. At least it goes up the stairs okay. The wood is old and weathered, bumpy and uneven, but still smoother than the lawn.
He stands beside the door, staring out at the graveyard behind the church. There’s a doorbell, which he doesn’t touch. His dad sighs a little when he gets up there, an exasperated little huff through his nose that says I know you’re being petty on purpose and I wish you’d stop.
Well, Hunter wishes he wasn’t being shipped off to Bumfuck, Nowhere to live with a relative he’s only met once before in the hopes that maybe a little bit of religious brainwashing will make him give up the whole ‘being a boy’ thing, but he is, and he’s not going to pretend to be happy about it.
Dad rings the doorbell. It plays the sound of church bells, which Hunter rolls his eyes at. They hear the creaking of footsteps before the door swings open, and there he stands, Hunter’s jailer for the summer.
The last time Hunter met his Uncle Philip was four or five years ago, at his grandfather’s funeral. The service was held in the church, the body buried in the graveyard behind it. Philip led it, and afterwards Dad brought Hunter over to introduce him. He seemed old and stern to Hunter then, stone-faced in his funereal vestments, taller even than Hunter’s father, hair pulled back into the sort of severe bun that would make a librarian proud.
It’s loose now, spilling down around his shoulders, and he looks a lot less formal in a pair of jeans and a surprisingly bright, floral button-up. He smiles at them, then stands aside to gesture them into the dim entrance to his home.
“Come in, sit down. You must be tired from the drive. Would you like drinks? I’ve got iced tea and lemonade.”
Hunter barges in past him, suitcase rattling behind him. The floors are wood inside too, which must be a bitch to keep clean. With gloomy certainty, he foresees months of daily sweeping.
From behind him comes the sound of his father’s voice, irritated and apologetic at once: “I’m sorry, she’s in a bit of a mood about this whole thing. I’d love a glass of lemonade.”
“I want to put my stuff up,” Hunter says, still not looking at either of them. There’s no foyer; the front door leads right into the little living room, which boasts a sofa, an armchair, and a TV that he isn’t 100% certain even shows color. There’s a for-real VCR player in the cabinet beside it.
“Robin -” Dad starts, tone sharp, but Uncle Philip cuts him off.
“It’s fine.” He comes up beside Hunter, touching his shoulder lightly to get his attention and then gesturing towards the back of the house. The living room is shaped like a squat letter L, and at the short end is a small open area that can’t rightly be called a hallway, bordered by three doors. “The room right in front of you is the bathroom. The one on the left is your bedroom.”
Which means the one on the right is, presumably, Philip’s. Hunter didn’t exactly have high hopes for privacy to begin with, but he’s pretty sure if he laid down with his feet in the guest bedroom doorway, his head would be in his uncle’s.
At least, with the door shut behind him, he can pretend he’s alone for a moment. Shoulders slumped, he looks around the little room. There’s a small closet on his right. Directly in front of him, right beneath one of the two windows in the room, is a sturdy wooden desk. The bed is in the corner above the desk, headboard beneath the other window.
While his dad and uncle talk in the living room, Hunter unpacks. His laptop goes on the desk, as do the few favorite books he brought. He has to stick his arm behind the nightstand and grope in the shadowy darkness to find the outlet the lamp is plugged into and stick his phone charger in it. He sets Sprig on the pillow, then hauls the suitcase over to the closet.
After a moment of careful consideration, he zips it up, pushes it inside the closet, and closes the door. His clothes are all folded in there anyway, and right now he thinks if he has to pull out and carefully hang up everything his dad made him bring - every skirt he owns, the most feminine shorts in his wardrobe, and whichever of his t-shirts his dad decided were least boyish - he’s going to throw a tantrum.
All of that done with, he flops onto the bed, which groans and creaks beneath him like something ancient. Dad is probably expecting him to come back out and be polite, but he has no intention of doing so. He lays there and listens to the murmured conversation, sitting up only when the creak of footsteps approaches his door.
Dad pokes his head in, followed shortly by the rest of his body. “Hey, honey.”
“Hey.” Flat, guarded, not giving him any handhold. Hunter already did all of his raging and pleading and arguing back home, in the months leading up to this decision. He’s still angry, but it’s settled into sullen, numb anger.
His dad looks at him, face all screwed up like he wants to say something, but then he just sighs. “I know you don’t want to be here, but just give it a chance, okay? Philip’s not a bad guy.”
Philip’s the guy you got to agree to pray the gay away. Or the transgender, in this case. Hunter doesn’t say that, though. He just says, “Okay.”
Another sigh. “Alright. I love you.”
Hunter used to believe that without reservation. “Okay.”
His dad lingers for a moment, then accepts that he’s not going to say it back. “Alright. Goodbye. Call me if you need anything, alright?”
And then he’s gone. Hunter listens to his footsteps recede, the front door creak open and thump closed, the distant growl of the car starting up and bumping its way back down the gravel driveway. Soon that’s gone as well, and it’s just him and Uncle Philip alone in this tiny, thin-walled house.
His uncle slips in after his dad is gone. Rather than stand awkwardly in the doorway, he comes and sits beside Hunter on the bed, making Hunter shift over.
“I know we’ve met before,” he says, “but it’s been long enough I think a re-introduction can’t hurt. What’s your name?”
Hunter stares at him. That’s got to be a joke. He shows no signs of it, though, just keeps looking patiently at Hunter, that easy smile on his face. “You only have one brother,” Hunter says slowly, “and he only has one kid.”
“Oh, sure, Caleb told me what he named you.” His uncle flicks his hand, as if the idea of what Caleb named his only child is of no importance. “And I’m asking what you want to be called. Unless you don’t want a different name? Robin works just as well for a boy, I suppose.”
Hunter’s mouth falls open. This has to be a joke, and a much crueler one - but he can’t stop the sudden, awful rush of hope. “You’re fucking with me.”
“You’ll watch your language when you speak to me,” his uncle says, mildly enough, but for a moment his blue eyes are very cold. “But I assure you that I’m not.”
“Dad said you’d… make me change my mind.” That wasn’t exactly how he put it, but Hunter has no desire to regurgitate every awful thing his dad said to him, every barb still stuck in his heart.
Uncle Philip rolls his eyes. “Your father certainly has his way of seeing things. That’s what he wants me to do, but I never said that’s what I’d do.”
“But… I mean, you’re a priest. Don’t you hate… this sort of thing? Queer people?”
“Not at all. The way I see it, the good Lord made you the way you are. Who am I, or your father for that matter, to argue?”
Hunter still doesn’t entirely trust him. But he looks his uncle over again, taking in the details that struck him at first - that long, loose hair, the colorful shirt, the airy and graceful way he holds himself and moves his hands - and thinks maybe there’s a big, gay blindspot in his dad’s way of seeing things.
“My name is Hunter,” he says, throat tight, tripping nervously over the words.
Smiling, Uncle Philip puts his arm around Hunter’s shoulders and gives him a brief squeeze. “I’m glad to meet you, Hunter. I look forward to teaching you how to be a good, God-fearing young man.”
—
Untucked, the shirt hangs down to the tops of Hunter’s thighs. Tucking it in helps a bit, and gives a boxy silhouette that he likes far better than the t-shirt he wore here, but it still doesn’t look right. It’s the best so far, though, the only outfit he hasn’t been absolutely swimming in, so he summons up his courage and steps out of the dressing room to present himself for his uncle’s approval.
Uncle Philip glances up at the sound of the door, then stands and approaches him. He eyes Hunter appraisingly, then wordlessly twirls his finger in the air: turn around.
Hunter turns slowly. Clothes shopping is always a nightmare; he expected being given free reign over the boys’ section to be more freeing, but instead he feels even rawer and smaller than he does when he’s trying to find the least unbearable girls’ t-shirts and jeans to drape himself in. His throat is tight, his eyes hot and not quite wet but threatening to get that way at a moment’s notice.
His uncle hums. “Not a bad start. Too big, though. You look like you got into your father’s closet.” He plucks at the fabric around Hunter’s waist. “Go down a couple of sizes from here and I think we’ll be getting somewhere.”
Back into the dressing room Hunter goes, to struggle back into his own clothes and emerge sweaty and flushed and ruffled. At least Uncle Philip doesn’t seem impatient with the process. He’s a fountain of advice, really, nudging Hunter towards or away from this or that pattern or color or fit.
Both of Hunter’s parents are more the t-shirts-and-jeans type, so he can use all the help he can get.
“You want long sleeves, I think,” his uncle says, pulling a sleek red-and-black striped button-up off the rack. “The tighter fit emphasizes your arms and shoulders. If the sleeves are too loose, it just makes you look smaller.”
The shirt looks good. Hunter eyes it doubtfully, though, and asks, “Are you sure that’ll fit?”
“Hm?” Philip holds it briefly up against Hunter’s front, knuckles brushing his shoulder. “Yes, I think so. Everything you picked was much too loose for you. You don’t want to look sloppy.”
“Yeah, but… I mean, it needs to be loose enough to hide, uh, you know.” Hunter gestures vaguely at his own body.
“Ah. Yes, we don’t want anything form-fitting, but trying to go too far the other direction just makes you look like you’re playing dress-up.” He eyes Hunter again, up and down in that same careful deliberating way, and then says briskly, “Your hips are the biggest problem. Tuck a decently-fitted shirt into a decently-fitted pair of straight leg pants - and wear them right, not falling off - and I think you’ll get that more masculine silhouette just fine. You’re not very busty, so, just make sure the shirts fit your hips and we’ll get the shoulders taken in if need be.”
Cheeks burning, Hunter takes the shirt. It’s good advice, delivered in a practical and casual tone, and Hunter’s the one who brought the shape of his own body - and therefore the parts that he’s trying to downplay - up in the first place, but it still feels strange to hear his uncle talk about his bust size.
Part of him wants to snap at Uncle Philip - taller than Hunter’s dad and slimmer to boot, solidly built without the pudgy stockiness that Hunter inherited - that he can’t know what it’s like to try to dress that body type. He’s never had to stumble around trying to figure out how to shove his soft, stubbornly curvy body into a man’s shape; he just grew that way.
But that’s just the lingering resentment from how everything went with his dad. Uncle Philip’s helping. So Hunter trails after him, biting back the nasty words, feeling angry and guilty and hurt and hopeful all at once.
“Do you bind your chest, by the way?” his uncle asks as he flicks through a rack of shirts, focused on them rather than Hunter.
“Uh - no, uh, I was going to ask Dad about getting one, but.” But instead, he ended up here.
“Oh, did you already have one in mind you wanted? We’ll order it when we get home, then.” He turns, drapes two more shirts over Hunter’s waiting arm, and marches off towards the pants.
“We - uh -” Head spinning, Hunter follows behind. He just can’t seem to catch his bearings with Uncle Philip. Every time he thinks he knows what’s going on, the man pulls the rug out from under his feet. “Okay, but they’re from online stores, so -”
His uncle turns, eyebrows raised. “Yes, I’m aware of where one buys such things. I do know how to use the internet.”
And Hunter absolutely cannot stop himself from saying, “Oh. Really?”
Luckily, Uncle Philip isn’t offended. He just laughs. “Good Lord, yes, how old do you think I am? I’m younger than Caleb, you know.”
“I - I mean, you don’t look old,” Hunter stammers, which probably isn’t helping. “Just, it’s just that your house… looks… old.”
“Oh, it is, but these are modern times. Even the church has internet, although, granted, it’s not wireless. What color do you like these in best?” He holds up a pair of olive green cargo pants, then, without waiting for Hunter’s answer, says, “Oh, we’ll just try them all. It’s good to have options.”
Back in the fitting room, Hunter examines himself in the mirror, and for the first time in more years than he cares to admit, he likes what he sees.
Uncle Philip was right - the closer fit does look better. He’s spent years slouching around in floor-length skirts and oversized hoodies and t-shirts just because anything else emphasizes the dip of his waist and the width of his hips, but the drab green cargo pants are butch without being shapelessly baggy, and with one of the tighter, long-sleeved button-ups tucked in, his body is more of a boxy rectangle than a pear.
There’s still plenty of loose fabric around the chest and shoulders for it to fit his hips, but his uncle said they could get it tailored - and he was right, too, about Hunter’s chest not being that much of an issue. The sports bras he wears flatten him down decently anyway, and the stiffer, looser, dark fabric of the button-up renders the modest curve of his chest barely visible.
His eyes well up suddenly. Sniffing, he blinks, willing his emotions back under control. What’s he crying for? This is good. This is exactly what he hoped for when Uncle Philip said he would buy him boy clothes.
Once he’s got his eyes dry, he steps out. “I think this is a lot better,” he says shyly.
“Oh, definitely.” Practically beaming, his uncle reaches out to fuss with his shoulders and sleeves and tug at where he tucked the shirt into his pants, light fluttering touches. “You look very handsome. Let’s check out and get you home, and I’ll give you a haircut.”
Handsome. Hunter flies high on that bit of praise all the way home. Part of him wants to doubt it, squirmingly sure that he’s just being humored, that he’s making a fool of himself by not immediately disputing it, but he does his best to quash that inner voice.
It’s only when he’s sitting backwards on a chair in his uncle’s kitchen that he starts to have doubts about cutting his hair. It’s short already, the curling ends not quite touching his shoulders, and he’s never really had much of a problem with it.
“Do I need a haircut?” he asks.
“Do you want to look more like a boy?” Uncle Philip doesn’t sound irritated or judgmental or anything, just neutrally curious, but Hunter still can’t help hearing it as Are you really serious about this, or are you wasting my time?
“You have long hair,” Hunter points out.
As a much younger child, he was fascinated when he realized it wasn’t simply severely short but long and pulled tightly back at his grandfather’s funeral service, and now he’s even moreso seeing just how long it really is worn loose. He’s never really seen a man with hair so long. Today, it’s up in the kind of jaunty high ponytail that Hunter mostly associates with the girls on the track team at school.
Hunter keeps finding himself staring at the way it shifts and bounces when Philip moves or turns his head, taken with the contrast between the luxuriously feminine mass of it and the man’s square jaw and broad shoulders. He can’t call Uncle Philip androgynous by any means, but the effect of his hair and big, blue eyes combined certainly makes him pretty. Hunter’s never been a pretty girl, but he thinks he might like the idea of being a pretty man.
“That’s true,” his uncle says. “I’m also six and a half feet tall and have to shave twice a day. You, on the other hand, look like a baby lesbian, so you’re going to have to try a little harder.”
Which is fair. Hunter balks again, though, when the clippers come out. “Okay, I’m not letting you shave my head.”
“Our mother shaved mine and Caleb’s heads once when he brought lice home from school,” Uncle Philip says. “It turns out he has a lovely skull, very smooth. I was thinking I’d just buzz the back and sides and trim the top a bit, get rid of those bangs.”
“You want to give me an undercut?” That’s still sort of shaving his head, but when Hunter tries to picture it, he finds he doesn’t mind the mental image.
“I hear it’s very popular among queer kids today. In fact, there are no less than three members of the little queer teens group I run with something similar. Besides -” the clippers come buzzing to life - “your father had quite a similar hairstyle when he was your age, and it suited him very well. You’ve got his face, so I imagine it’ll look good on you too.”
Hunter’s not sure how he feels about being made to look even more like his father - not when his feelings about the man are still such a tangled up ball of hurt and fury and disappointment. But Uncle Philip’s been right so far, so he doesn’t put up any more objections.
The clippers vibrate against his skull, too loud to talk over. He shivers as they pass over his scalp, shearing off chunks of blond hair which pile up in drifts on his shoulders and land on the floor below. Every so often, his uncle touches his cheek or his jaw to adjust the angle of his head.
Once he’s done with the clippers, he gets out a pair of scissors to see to the hair around Hunter’s ears. That part of his head is ticklishly sensitive, so he has to fight not to twitch while Uncle Philip snips away.
Into the relative quiet, he asks, “You run a queer teens group?”
“Mmhm. Ages thirteen to eighteen. They meet in the basement of the church for a couple of hours every other Wednesday.” He bends Hunter’s ear down and leans in close, the cold metal of the scissors sliding against Hunter’s skin and making him break out in goosebumps. “You can come to the next meeting, if you’d like.”
“Yeah, sure. That sounds fun.” He closes his eyes while Uncle Philip cuts off his bangs, cupping his chin in one hand to hold his head still. “So do you and my dad just… not talk?” Wow, that was tactful. “I mean - I’m sorry, it’s just - I mean, I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re -” He bites his lip to shut himself up.
Of course he knows his own brother thinks he’s straight. That’s probably on purpose, given how he reacted to Hunter coming out. Idiot.
“Not really, no,” his uncle says, as if it were a perfectly normal and not at all thoughtlessly rude question. “The last time we had a real conversation was - well, the last time was when he called to ask if I’d take you in for the summer, but before that, it was at Father’s funeral. We haven’t had much to do with each other since he got married.”
“Oh. Why not?” Was it because Uncle Philip knew his dad was homophobic? He hid it well enough that Hunter didn’t even know - but maybe Hunter just didn’t pay attention. Maybe he was just so blinded by hope he didn’t stop to consider the reality. Maybe his uncle was just smarter than him.
Philip’s hand disappears from his chin. After a moment, Hunter opens his eyes, to see the man standing a few steps away, lips pursed.
“You’d have to ask him,” he says finally. “He never told me why he was leaving, he just left. Here, get up now, go look at yourself and tell me how you like it.”
Not like there’s much he can do if he doesn’t like it, other than wait for it to grow back. Well, if he hates it, then at least it’ll be well on its way to fixed by the end of the summer, and no one at school will have to see.
Obediently, Hunter gets up, gives his shirt a shake to get the loose hair off, and goes into the bathroom. Uncle Philip comes to peer over his shoulder, watching for his response.
It’s not quite his father’s face that stares out at him from the mirror - softer, rounder, with a more delicate mouth - but it’s close enough to be eerie. Hunter turns his head, eying his profile, and reaches up to stroke the stubble at the side of his head. It looks bristly, but it’s so delightfully soft that once he starts touching it, he can’t stop.
“Well?” his uncle asks after a moment, although the way he’s smiling suggests he already knows what the answer is.
“It looks great.” Hunter grins at his reflection in the mirror, leaning in close over the sink. “Thank you.”