“You said it didn’t matter. You said Vails and Staids were the same.”

“That’s not exactly what I said. I said that the feelings must be the same. But Fift—”

“How do you pee?” Fift asked.

Shria stopped, blinked again. Ve turned, in vir sitting body, towards zir. “I have a urinary pistil. I hope you’re not going to start with that Foundationist claptrap about system-separatory antivalences and somatic harmony theory?”

“Uh . . . no,” Fift said, “because I have no idea what that is.”

“Oh. Never mind. Genital designer infighting. I’ll spare you the holy wars.” Ve shook vemself, stretched vir arms above vir head and cracked vir back.

“That was, um.” Fift’s throat was tight, zir voice slightly strangled. “That was sex?”

“Yup,” Shria said. Ve buttoned vir last button, took vir hair out of its clip, and smoothed it.

“Oh,” Fift said. “I didn’t know it would be so . . . easy. I mean, simple. I mean. You know.”

Shria snorted.

“You know what I mean,” Fift said. “I thought it . . . took longer.”

“Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead?” Shria said. Vir voice was tight. Vir other body, next to Fift, stood up, and paced across the room.

“I can’t tell if you’re kidding or if you’re angry,” Fift said.

Shria pulled a comb from the tool rack. Ve sat down in front of vemself. In vir standing body, ve began to tug the comb through vir sitting body’s hair. “I’m not angry,” ve said. “It’s okay.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Fift said.

“No, Fift. But . . . it’s not simple. Or easy. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Fift swallowed. “I guess now we have another secret.”

Shria nodded, looking grim. “Yeah, I’d say we do.”

Fift’s throat constricted. Ze looked down at zir hands. They were trembling. Ze forced zir face to be still, expressionless. What was wrong with zir? It was zir fault. It was zir responsibility. Shria depended on zir to be the still center, to hold them both stable, in safety, in harmony, and instead . . .

If Fift were really a Vail, underneath everything—if ze were really misgendered—ze would probably cry now. But ze couldn’t remember how to cry. When ze was seven, flailing through zir somatic integration exercises with a dozen strangers heckling over the feed, the sobs had been right at the surface, caught in zir chest, wanting to burn through, barely held back. Now there was nothing.

Shria looked at zir and put the comb away. Ve snapped vir long red hair back into place. Ve came over, in both bodies, and sat on either side of Fift.

“Hey,” ve said.

Fift said nothing.

“Did you . . . like it too?” ve said.