Chase stood in front of his cousin’s duffle bag, his irises swirling with anxious oranges and reds. Mari would flip-out if she caught him in here. If Chase was Mari, he’d flip-out. But it was too late to back-out now, he’d already decided to do this. The child balled and unballed his fists, and then unzippered the luggage, flipping it open.

He’d gotten the idea from Saturday morning cartoons. Chase had been listlessly working his way through a bowl of cereal, only half-paying attention to the cartoon that was playing in front of him. The characters—a motley collection of aliens—were staging some sort of coup to figure out the gender of a nondescript purple friend.

“Oh—haha, don’t you know?” the purple alien had rebuffed the other characters, “I’m neither! With my species, we don’t choose our gender until our thirteenth birthday! Speaking of which, mine’s on Monday.”

The human-shifter looked up from the iridescent hoops that swam lazily in his bowl. While the characters chattered about the pronouncement in confusion, Chase was having a revelation of his own.

He, too, could choose.

Chase couldn’t sneak into any girls room to enact this experiment, however. He didn’t want to be some weirdo-creep. Mari was visiting the Mansion, for Thanksgiving, and… somehow, the fact that she was family made it seem a little less weird. If worse came to worse, he could chalk it up to “typical, younger-relative shenanigans” and try to put the whole thing behind him.

It was thus that Chase stood surveying the foreign terrain of neatly-folded juniors’ clothes. Tentatively, the twelve-year-old ran the palm of his hand over the fabric. He felt the dull prickle of genetic residue but, since Mari was like Mama, it didn’t do anything. Perfect. Chase carefully unfolded the first article of clothing, something black and floral-printed, and surveyed it. It was a skater skirt. Cute. He laid it on the bed.

Mari was gonna kill him. Despite this, Chase pulled out another item, presumably a shirt—yeah, some off-the-shoulder maroon thing with long sleeves. This, too, was deposited on the bed. This was crazy. Super crazy. Mari was going to kill him. He was dead, dead, dead.

If Chase was smart, he would have shut the bag and run off with the clothes, but he didn’t. He stayed in Mari’s temporary room, wriggling out of his shoes and skinny-jeans, shedding his shirt. Mari’s fitted shirt was hastily pulled over the Chase’s head, slender arms being pushed through the sleeves. He was a lanky kid, so the shirt actually—surprisingly—fit. The skirt was snatched-up next, which he stepped through as though were a pair of pants.

“Heh,” Chase remarked to himself, running to the mirror to see. It was drafty without pants-legs. He twirled a bit, his back to the door. He looked cute.

“This needs…” the human-shifter trailed to himself. He looked at the crown of his head, the disheveled boys’ cut that his hair was in. On-cue, his hair began to grow, wavy sheets of black unfurling past his shoulders to the small of his back. His face, already cute and small, now seemed more feminine in the jet-black frame of hair. Something still wasn’t right about the face, though. Girls had even cuter faces, right?

His blunt nose became slightly smaller and more upturned. That… actually helped considerably. Chase could feel a smile pulling at his lips, and the girl in the mirror smiled back. “He” didn’t have to be “he”. They could choose.

It was at about that moment that the mechanisms could be heard turning in the door, and someone crossed the threshold. A shock of fearful red ran through the human-shifter’s irises. They were so, so, so, so, so, so dead, and they were going to die, ashamed, in their cousin’s clothes. Looking very much like a deer in the headlights, a still-female Chase stood rooted in front of the mirror. Why couldn't the ground just swallow them up and bury them alive?

"U-uh... hi... Mari..." the child hazarded, cracking a smile that was one-part placating and one-part a mortified baring of teeth, "P-please don't freak out."

They didn't really "know" each other very well... so Chase fully expected an impending freak-out.

Thanksgiving break was such a great time of the year! Sure, it did come with a bittersweet Skype call to remind Marisol she would not be seeing her mother for the first Thanksgiving in… well, ever, and there was no denying that sucked. Marisol and her mother had a close relationship because, for the longest time, they were all the other had day in and day out.

The maternal distance did not mean Marisol was without a place to turn to during Thanksgiving. Not only did she get to spend the holiday with her Tío, she even got to enjoy the company of her new Tía Gemma and her cousin Chase. They all shared a delicious dinner as a family, followed by a movie.

Beyond all the things Marisol loved about New York and her career path, she might have loved connecting with her favorite uncle and his family the most. Gemma was wise and sweet, and Chase was an adorable kid. He was also a shapeshifter, so Marisol had to be cautious about getting too close and resetting him into his form. Marisol cared about her cousin; she just lamented the literal distance between them at times.

Marisol could handle Chase’s base form, though her first exposure to the sinewy, ropey form was a bit of a surprise. She just did not want to go around forcing Chase out of whatever state he wanted to be in. That meant being aware of where she was stepping around the boy.

That was why, when Marisol entered her temporary room the next day, she was surprised to see Chase and pressed her back against the door to hopefully stay six-feet away. She had to process the surprise before she could really settle in on all the reasons to be surprised.

Chase was In her room. Chase was going through her clothes. Chase was wearing her clothes.

…Did Chase look so feminine a day earlier?

Marisol was not yet sure what was going on yet, but she knew something was going on. Until she had a better grasp on the situation, she made it her top priority not to over-react, because Chase was there for a reason. ”H-hey, honey. I’m not gonna freak out,” she promised. Chase was wearing her clothes and presenting in a feminine form. As someone who was still getting a handle on what her sexual identity was, Marisol’s mind jumped to questions of identity, but Marisol did not want to jump to any conclusions. ”It’s a nice skirt, right?”

His face burnt with a flush, his eyes fixating on the floor. He couldn't look at Marisol-- what could be possibly tell her that wouldn't make it seem weird. Already, Chase's hair was shortening, reverting to its usual unkempt boy-cut. His nose also reverted.

His mouth moved as if to speak, but words eluded him. The first day he'd met Marisol, he'd showed off for her-- borrowed something from Jorge and used it to mimic him, so she probably knew the process didn't require him to fully don someone else's clothes. He also couldn't seem to Mama's or Mari's clothes for shifting. Something about their auras muted their genetic signatures.

>> ”H-hey, honey. I’m not gonna freak out. It’s a nice skirt, right?”

"I mean, if you like skirts!” the shifter-child snapped, his face still red and eyes still downcast. He balled his hands in the skirt, gritting his teeth. He should watch his tone. Mama said that all the time, when Chase was in trouble. "Don't take that tone of voice with me." If he took a tone with Mari she might tell.

"... It's a nice skirt, if you like skirts," the child admonished, "Which I totally don't. I just wanted to see if shifting would work if I was all the way dressed as you instead of just... holding onto things."

He still wasn't looking Marisol in the eyes. The words gushed out of his mouth too quickly. There was an uncertain smile upon his lips, and a fearful, anxious red swirling in his irises. It was almost a good lie, if Chase hadn't been so panicked. Chase knew this. If it was just an experiment with his mutation, he wouldn't be so scared. His knuckles were nearly white from gripping the skirt so hard.

"You aren't gonna tell, are you?" For the first time since Mari came in, Chase dared to look at her, "I can wash your clothes. All of them. This is the only thing I tried on but I can wash all of them. But please don't tell."

There was a sort of unspoken "I'll do anything" trailing at the end of that sentence.

The moment he realized what was happening, Chase reverted his features to look more like his “standard self.” There was a pang in Marisol’s heart because her cousin felt the need to change back in front of her. She tried to be warm and inviting, but she knew all too well how hard it could be to share things with others when you were unsure about them yourself. Maybe Chase was just a boy having fun with her clothes, but Marisol wanted to be open to any possibilities.

Chase was quick to get defensive, with his words, his tone, and his need to distance himself from the skirt. He had a point; with his ability to shift, Chase could have just been looking to test his shifting powers by wearing an adapted’s clothing. The only problems were the parts of the story that did not make sense. Chase changed his… her? Their appearance. That had nothing to do with trying to mimic Marisol. Besides, if Chase really wanted to test his abilities, he could have borrowed his mother’s clothes. She was around all the time, so he had to go out of his way to try out her wardrobe.

Still, it was best for Marisol to play along as long as Chase was trying to be guarded. ”Of course. There’s nothing wrong with that. With any of it.”

More than anything else, Chase wanted reassurance that Marisol was not going to tell Jorge and Gemma. He was panicked and he was trying to do anything he could to make sure she kept the secret. That spoke volumes. Marisol held up both her hands with open palms, hoping to convey that she was on Chase’s side. ”I’m not going to tell them anything because there’s nothing to tell. It’s just a skirt. You are allowed to wear a skirt, regardless of how or why you want to.”

It was hard to figure out the right way to be supportive and welcoming without prying or pushing for information. It was important to be careful. ”It looked good, you know. The skirt,” she started, before adding more hesitantly, ”The hair.”

Marisol pointed to the bed behind Chase. ”Can I get closer? So maybe we can sit and talk?” Spending more time around mutants, Marisol was learning to ask before stepping into someone’s personal space with her own personal space.

It was all so confusing. That was the best way to put it. Confusing. Scary. Things weren't so black-and-white when you could sometimes be a girl, or sometimes be a boy, and most of the times feel like you werent really either. There weren't words for that. That wasn't possible. You were a girl OR you were a boy. That's just how it was. And Chase was doing something very un-boy-like by donning his cousin's skirt.

>> "Of course. There's nothing wrong with that. With any of it... I'm not going to tell them anything because there's nothing to tell. It's just a skirt. You are allowed to wear a skirt, regardless of how or why you want to."

The child's head, and gaze, lifted marginally. Marisol was older so, by default, knew more. She had to be speaking from experience, so Chase pressed, "... I am?"

It wasn't much, but it was something-- the slightest fissure in his hastily erected wall. It wasn't that anyone had ever, overtly told him that he wasn't allowed to wear a skirt. But no one had ever told him he was allowed to, either. It was sort of an unspoken thing. You were a girl OR you were a boy. Girls could wear pants or skirts, but boys... it's just how things were. An unspoken thing. But if Chase was allowed to... the child unballed his hands.

>> "It looked good, you know. The skirt. The hair."

"It did?"

He was looking at Mari now, and a small, hesitant smile touched his expression. He didn't know why he was smiling. His body language was altogether bashful-- a hand hesitantly rubbed the forearm of his opposite arm. A sock-clad foot pivoted against the floor. His eyes darted away again, though.

>> "Can I get closer? So maybe we can sit and talk?"

Chase intuitively knew what that meant, as someone who could be forced back into their natural face by someone like Mari or Mama.

"Yeah," the child agreed, taking a seat on a spare patch of bed. What would they talk about, though? What was there to talk about? Sometimes, Chase didn't understand older people. They always wanted to talk.

The older you get, the harder it is to remember what it was like to be a child. The way someone thought as a kid becomes so entirely foreign to the adult they become and, with how much teenagers were constantly changing as people, someone at twelve and the same someone at seventeen might as well be entirely different people. Chase was seeing the world in a way Marisol had forgotten about, but if she really pressed herself, she could see the signs. There was a way the world was supposed to work because that was what everyone said. Things were supposed to work that way and if they do not, something wrong.

Marisol remembered feeling “wrong” for too long in her life. She watched herpeers around her developing crushes and entering their first relationships and she sat there, feeling like some alien trying to piece together the mystery. If there was something Chase needed to figure out, she did not want to see her cousin struggling with it alone, feeling wrong.

The way Chase looked at her left the impression that he did want some kind of validation, even if he was still wary. Processing the idea that he—well, maybe she(?) could wear girl clothes sounded wrong compared to what (s)he heard from the rest of the world. Still, when she offered her compliment, Chase smiled, albeit a small, nervous smile.

With the offer to sit together out there, Chase obliged Marisol and took a seat next to her. Marisol watched as tan skin gave way to the dark, rope-like skin of Chase’s “base” form. She handled it in stride; the last thing she wanted was to make Chase feel like she was uncomfortable around her cousin in any form Chase chose to take.

They were sitting together and the awkward pause that followed was evidence of Marisol not actually knowing where she was supposed to start. She was just figuring out her own sexual identity at seventeen; who was she to talk to Chase about gender identity?

The answer was obvious: she was the one who was there, so it had to be her. ”So have you tried on clothes like these before? Or was this your first time? And either is okay. Remember; you’ve done nothing wrong, sweetheart.” Marisol was seeing signs in her cousin of something that made sense to her, but she did not want to jump to conclusions based on something she only saw for a moment.

The form unraveled once Mari's aura enveloped him, cords slipping like an unclenched fist. Uncertain, orange-brown flecks swam through his eyes, and a smile cracked across his features. He glanced at Mari out of the corner of his eyes, his face bent towards his hands. His natural hair was getting shaggy, the white tips of his bangs falling over his eyes.

"I mean... not like this?" Chase said with a winsome smile, glancing at his cousin, "My power, you know, it lets me use people's things as a... uh... shortcut. Sometimes. I've never just... tried stuff on."

He was stammering. And quickly getting embarrassed.

"I just-! Saw this cartoon, and, uh," even if Mari was trying to be calm and accepting, the whole thing felt sooo weird! "In the cartoon there's an alien that can choose if it- they- want to be a boy or a girl. And they don't choose until they're thirteen."

The latter half of the explanation came out in a hastily uttered string of words. He couldn't believe he just said that. He could choose, too. That was the unspoken declaration. He was a mutant with the power of choosing. If only Chase had been so articulate. His ears burnt with a blush.

The more Mari thought about it, the more it made sense for a shapeshifter to question who they were and what gender they would feel comfortable “wearing.” Chase had a “default” human appearance, but how much did that really mean in the grand scheme of things?

It did not occur to Mari until Chase mentioned it, but if their powers involved picking up “appearances” from someone’s belongings, it stood to reason that something about her mutation-immunity might make her clothes clean of influence.

Apparently, her younger cousin was apparently watching a cartoon with what sounded like a genderfluid alien, (which Mari mentally praised as being pretty darn progressive for a kids show,) and it got them thinking about themselves in relation to the gender binary. He was starting to get ideas, so maybe it was a good idea for her to explain some of the real-world details.

”You know, Chase, there’s really nothing saying any person is one gender or the other. Especially you. It’s up to you if you end up feeling like you’re a boy or a girl or both or neither. Or even something in between.” Marisol placed a hand carefully on her cousin’s shoulder. ”And there’s no rush if you want to take the time to figure it all out. You don’t have to have it figured out by thirteen.”

Mari looked over to her pile of clothes, smiling softly. ”Let me know if you want to try anything on. My closet is at your disposal. And… if you ever decide you want to, of course… I would be happy to take you shopping. No pressure, though.”