Fairytales

Princesses can’t like girls. That’s not how fairytales work, everyone knows that. Princesses marry princes and then they have their happily ever after. Sometimes there are ivy covered walls, or thorns that can prick and scratch. Sometimes there are mistakes. But there are some things that stay the same, time wearing a neat little path for everyone to walk down. The path is pathed with failed rebellions and traditions that are just too hard to fight against.

There are are some things that everyone knows. Princesses can’t like girls, the grass is green, the sky is blue. Princesses can’t be anything but princesses either. They have to feel feminine, to like it when other people call them a “lovely young lady” and a “beautiful girl.” They shouldn’t want to scream I’m not a girl from the castle roof. They should follow that nice little path. It’s just how things are.

But she just looks so pretty, with dark eyes and a dress always somehow dirty, disappearing around corners. Two full conversations and the wrong impression had probably already burrowed into her mind. Weird and too polite. That’s how everyone looked at her, eyes catching on the constant movements and the jerky gestures and noting else. She had called them Princess Penelope just like everyone else. That wasn’t fair, they knew that. But everyone always said that life wasn’t fair. Maybe they were right. They had always hoped everyone was wrong though and sometimes (always) it hurt to be proven wrong again and again

But it definitely wasn’t fair for them to look at her in the way they did. She didn’t know they felt like... that towards girls. It is wrong to look at someone in such a way when they couldn’t know. It is creepy. So they turned their eyes towards the floor just like they had a thousand times before and hoped that their heart will manage. It had before. It would over and over until they stopped being so twisted. Lesbians were weird. They weren’t weird, so obviously they couldn’t be one.

They weren’t even a girl. They didn’t feel like one, anyway. They were told other people did. That it was something in their bones. Something just... understood. Penelope (Sam, they whispered to themself on some nights) couldn’t understand that. They would eventually though. They had to. They would wear a dress and get called a girl without discomfort. They would get their happily ever after with a handsome prince. That’s how the fairytales always went. There were no stolen looks behind shadowed eyes towards a beautiful women in a beautiful dress. Who would want to read that?

And no, they weren’t bitter. And no they didn’t flinch when people touched them. Princesses weren’t anxious. They could breathe easily when they were in crowds. That’s how the world works.

That’s how fairytales work.

But there were green stains to their fingertips from now, a lovely bouquet of wildflower in their hand  (she liked the yellow ones). The Princess loved plants. She was always out in the garden, turning the world a little bit greener. Some might call it unladylike, but that’s why Penelope (that wasn’t their name) had prepared the bouquet. It had taken hours of painstaking work and now their hands were shaking. But even if they were weighed down with lead Penelope (Sam, Sam, Sam) raised their fist.

Tap, tap, tap, tap

There was a door opened a crack and that perfect face peeked out.

“My name is Sam,” they said in a rush, cheeks already reddening.

“Hello, Sam. Would you like to come in?”

Time slowed down.

Sam squeezed their eyes shut.

Her room was full of plants when they opened their eyes and she was smiling. Sam felt at home. It was a strange feeling.

(She said she had been scared, years down the road. Sam had laughed but she smiled and pressed a kiss to their lips. “It’s true,” she said, a faint smile underneath her blush. They grinned back at her and brushed the hair out of her face, fingers lingering on her face. There was warmth in their eyes and comfort in their smile and everything was finally easy.

Perfect, Sam thought dreamily. They leant in for another kiss. )