shoujoreject (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shoujoreject) wrote2016-05-05 01:05 am
shoujoreject) wrote2016-05-05 01:05 am
Entry tags:
Background Drabbles
DISCLAIMER: This is generally a work-in-progress, and will be updated occasionally, as I write little snippets of Qing's past. Feel free to check back now and then!
Claws.
All he had wanted, honestly, was what any son would want for his family. He wanted them to be proud.
Before high school, he believed they were. He'd been too young, too naive to notice the way they looked at him, the quiet sense of disappointment they hid in the midst of company. By seventeen, he couldn't miss it anymore. They tried, of course, to be happy for him. His mother did better at it, though he noticed she often treated him like a daughter more than a son, teaching him much of what he would come to know about makeup and coordination.
His father, though, withdrew. Qing-Yuan wasn't sure exactly when it started, but he remembered when he noticed it. When he had been younger, he would simply come to his father to chatter with him, never noticing the quiet discomfort he had. Now, when they spoke, it was through stiff, businesslike commentary. They smiled, and in public it was fine. In private, it felt cracked, flaking pieces of what used to be.
'It would be easier if you wanted to be my daughter.' It was a statement Qing would never forget. A statement made simply, without malice, but seeped in so much that it ripped at the youth like claws. As a woman, Qing could make his father proud. As a 'normal' man, he could make his father proud. As a man who enjoyed nothing more than cross-dressing, his father could never wrap his head around it.
The sudden memory made Qing pause, his pen faltering on the paper he'd been sketching on. Hot tears flickered to his eyes and he pushed them back, blinking his eyes to clear them before the droplets could gather enough size to pour down his face. Abruptly, he had to get up from his seat, glancing to his roommate to ensure they were still asleep before stealing out into the hall for some air. It was a cold night, tendrils of nigh-icy air assaulting his lungs and forcing away his emotions, at least for a moment.
Concealer. (note: implied violence/bullying)
It had been a long day. Many of them were, but usually not like this. Qing didn't have any questions about his identity or who he was, despite the jeered words and whispers no one thought he heard.
"Teenagers are cruel." Of course they were. It was a lot easier to sling words at someone so different than to try to understand them. He'd slipped to his room without his parents noticing, grabbing a small mirror to inspect the damage to his face. A small cut on his lip, a bruise. Wincing at the sight of it, he sighed heavily and set the mirror down to go find his makeup kit. It was easier this way. No one needed to see that, especially his parents.
After a few moments, he heard his mother's shrill voice calling up to him, informing him that dinner was almost ready and she would like his help. Swiping a thick swath of concealer over the growing darkness around his eye, he didn't miss a single beat in calling out "I'll be down in a minute!" To cover the cut, he applied a quick flicker of lip coloring, a deep red stain. Then he slapped on his best smile and turned away from the mirror, wiping his fingers on a cleansing wipe before slipping down to the kitchen.
Claws.
All he had wanted, honestly, was what any son would want for his family. He wanted them to be proud.
Before high school, he believed they were. He'd been too young, too naive to notice the way they looked at him, the quiet sense of disappointment they hid in the midst of company. By seventeen, he couldn't miss it anymore. They tried, of course, to be happy for him. His mother did better at it, though he noticed she often treated him like a daughter more than a son, teaching him much of what he would come to know about makeup and coordination.
His father, though, withdrew. Qing-Yuan wasn't sure exactly when it started, but he remembered when he noticed it. When he had been younger, he would simply come to his father to chatter with him, never noticing the quiet discomfort he had. Now, when they spoke, it was through stiff, businesslike commentary. They smiled, and in public it was fine. In private, it felt cracked, flaking pieces of what used to be.
'It would be easier if you wanted to be my daughter.' It was a statement Qing would never forget. A statement made simply, without malice, but seeped in so much that it ripped at the youth like claws. As a woman, Qing could make his father proud. As a 'normal' man, he could make his father proud. As a man who enjoyed nothing more than cross-dressing, his father could never wrap his head around it.
The sudden memory made Qing pause, his pen faltering on the paper he'd been sketching on. Hot tears flickered to his eyes and he pushed them back, blinking his eyes to clear them before the droplets could gather enough size to pour down his face. Abruptly, he had to get up from his seat, glancing to his roommate to ensure they were still asleep before stealing out into the hall for some air. It was a cold night, tendrils of nigh-icy air assaulting his lungs and forcing away his emotions, at least for a moment.
Concealer. (note: implied violence/bullying)
It had been a long day. Many of them were, but usually not like this. Qing didn't have any questions about his identity or who he was, despite the jeered words and whispers no one thought he heard.
"Teenagers are cruel." Of course they were. It was a lot easier to sling words at someone so different than to try to understand them. He'd slipped to his room without his parents noticing, grabbing a small mirror to inspect the damage to his face. A small cut on his lip, a bruise. Wincing at the sight of it, he sighed heavily and set the mirror down to go find his makeup kit. It was easier this way. No one needed to see that, especially his parents.
After a few moments, he heard his mother's shrill voice calling up to him, informing him that dinner was almost ready and she would like his help. Swiping a thick swath of concealer over the growing darkness around his eye, he didn't miss a single beat in calling out "I'll be down in a minute!" To cover the cut, he applied a quick flicker of lip coloring, a deep red stain. Then he slapped on his best smile and turned away from the mirror, wiping his fingers on a cleansing wipe before slipping down to the kitchen.