A/N: First ever Degrassi fanfic. Adam's probably my favorite new Degrassi character ever. I mean Eli's frickin awesome, but Adam's got dynamics other than romance. Actually, what I like most about him is the fact that he probably wont get a romance. That and he's transgendered. Never before has there been someone transgender on Degrassi. I'm just guessing about how he feels about his genetic coding, but I feel like maybe I did good with this.

Maybe.

Summary: The words, the glare, they're meant to deter him, make him recoil but they only pull him closer. He feels the same thing she feels when he sees himself in the mirror and he can't help but want her more for that.

Follow Up A/N: I keep editing small bits of this, I wonder if that's a good thing...


S

His eyes, blue, downcast, wish to catch hers from across the room. He watches her from under short, dark eyelashes while she flips her long hair, and shoots scowls that send shivers down the receivers' spines. He knows he likes her, but right now she's ignoring him. He watches her strut, utter confidence walking across the room. She gives a sly grin, snaking her arm around Fitz to grab the Heineken from behind his unsuspecting back. Her curly hair is mused, she swats his hand away, and blindly takes a swig from the bottle. Adam's stomach tightens and he swallows his nerves while turning to talk to a friend.

He's trying to ignore her, trying to keep his eyes off of her. He doesn't want too, but he doesn't want to know what will happen if he stares. Actually, he does know, he just doesn't want to admit it. Someone hands him a drink of some sort as he watches her slink across the room from the corner of his eye. Eli makes a joke and he laughs at it, the sound a bit hallow, even to his own ears. For a few brief and glorious seconds he takes his eyes off of her.

Of course his eyes drift back, watching her slink around in a short skirt and a tight shirt, miraculously not showing anything that she doesn't want seen. She's got people crowding her and he watches her trying to slip out, a chuckle playing on his lips. She's walking like she owns the house, the party and all the people in the room. She doesn't bother acting in anyway that she doesn't think suits her and honestly he can relate to that. He thinks she's gorgeous and deadly; a walking bomb in a pair of stilettos. She's slipping through the crowd, and, suddenly, she's right behind him, with an arm slinking through his, and her chin on his shoulder.

"Freak."

It's a spiteful utterance, her breath easing across his ear and sending coiling shivers to his stomach. He pulls away to turns and sees her glaring. Her eyes are void of everything but disgust and spite. The words, the glare, they're meant to deter him, make him recoil, but they only pull him closer. He feels he can relate to that, the disgust, the spite, the disappointment. He feels the same thing she feels when he sees himself in the mirror, and he can't help but want her more for that. At the same time he wants to choke on her words, he thinks it's sick that she can openly express her emotions and he's left stunted.

He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, but words refuse to leave surprisingly tight lips, considering the alcohol ingested. Her eyes harden and she grabs his wrist, dragging him off. He goes willingly, hoping he's a specific target and she's not setting him up to get jumped. Her hate he can handle, anyone else's would be too much to deal with right now. But that might be because she fills him up to the brim, so much that he's threatening to spill over. He licks his lips more out of nervousness than anything.

She's stumbling through the crowd, grace and slinky movements left behind for blind speed and brute force. She's shoving bodies and he's trying to help. People gape at them, to shocked to move. But they can all tell from her eyes that she's drunk and they know he's just confused and maybe, just as drunk as her. Eli sends a warning glare to her and she growls something about that Eli's girlfriend, Saint Clare, she names the other girl. Her voice is riddled with resent, he knows 'Saint Clare' personally, a friend of his. He wonders if she hates Clare for being so innocent despite the shit thrown at her.

The catcalls are surprisingly absent while they walk, and it seems to take twice as long to get to the destination. She drags him outside, where they're alone. She pushes him against the wall and takes a step back. She eyes him up and down, disgust and curiosity filling her usually dead eyes. What she wants he doesn't know, but he wants too. She lurches forward, leaning on him. Her body presses against his and her face is in his neck. Her breath tickles and burns, he feels fire spreading through him. Her hand slips down the waistband of his jeans and she lets a finger run over one of his slick folds. She giggles and takes a small lick at his neck, obviously enjoying the shiver. "It's still there, that's so weird."

His hands want to wander, but he's afraid of scaring her off. Her hands scope and scale his treacherous body, wondering at the hardened muscles that clenched at her slightest touch. Fingertips walk across goosing skin and her soft little pants coat his ears. Her hands find the binding that hold down his chest and she sighs. "So much easier to deal with if you were just gay." she says, voice breathy with a hint of want behind the otherwise annoyed tone.

He knows she's drunk but he doesn't care because she's struck a cord. It's a line he's not new too, he's heard it so many times. So many times he's been asked to please, please just be gay because it's something everyone can deal with it. He's tried it before, back when being Chelsea was all he could do. But now he can't do it, now he can't deny the fact that he feels so distorted in the body he was given. What lies between his legs is the wrong assignment, the dead give away on his chest is more apparent, but easy enough to get ride of. He hates it more than he hates himself for not wanting it, them, any of this. He's hyper-aware of it now though, her quick, slender fingers are gently stroking at parts of it he'd rather not acknowledge knowing about. Not when it's his anyway.

"Why?" His voice cuts her and he knows it, every time he speaks she recoils further. Yet the words make her choke on a giggle and she groans, pressing closer.

Her breathing is uneven and edgy, it's almost like he can hear the number of glasses she's downed clinking in her voice, "Because I hate you," she answers with a slur.

The words burn him in the best way. Starting in his chest and spreading slowly, eating at him. She's glaring at him now, looking directly into crystal clear blue eyes, eyes of the innocent and the scorned. In this state, she doesn't think it is fair to her to have to see those eyes, not when she knew she'd be the reason they'd fill with tears one day. He can see this reaction in her, he wants to milk it, make it worse, make it hurt. But he doesn't, because she can hate him all she wants if it means he wont have to do it himself anymore. "If I was just gay, would you try me?"

She laughs, hollow and angry. "We wont know now, will we?"

Her eyes are unfocused, he wants to talk but he doesn't know what he could say. She's right, he knows it. She presses her hips into his, noticing the similarities. They disturb her, but she's determined to figure this out in her current state and he knows this. Every time she sees him he confuses her and she's getting tired of that. She wants to try the sex, to see if she can figure it out in that way, since sex is something she can understand. But he wont have sex with this body, he can't because his 'equipment', sickens him, he doesn't want it touched. She knows she's getting away with a lot just standing there, stroking his clit and clumsily grinding against him for the hell of it. He'd have her if genetics hadn't screwed him over, passing over that much needed Y chromosome for another X.

She stops playing with his sorely unwanted sex and grins sloppily at him. "You want me," she says huskily, walking her fingers up his constricted chest, "but you don't want to use this," she flicks her fingertip back over his clit crudely, making sure to use her nail, "'cuz you hate it. Did I get it right?"

He just nods, his hands clenching into tight fists at his side. He feels blood blossom under his nails and she sighs at his very small, pained whimper. She grabs his hands and presses the knuckles to loosen his fingers, making his back arch so his stomach presses into hers. She places his hands on her rear and pushes them both together, and into him, back into the wall. Her hands are done scoping, she's tugging at the hem of his shirt. He wont pull it off and she knows that, so instead she slips her hands up under the fabric. The binding cloth surprises her this time. He's starting to shake and she realizes that this wont go anywhere, not here, not now, not like this. She's just curious and filled with enough emotion to maybe get into this, he's much to willing and likes the fire she spreads. She glares at him, growling and looking ready to hit him, he braces himself for the blow, but she just slinks off.

He slides down against the wall of the house, the rough wood trying to tug his shirt up. He's there alone for a while, wondering if this was all part of some greater purpose or plot to make him a better person, so he wouldn't be terrible, arrogant and cocky when he finally, finally gets what he needs. His thoughts seem like a broken record, he must have gone over this a million times before. Still, he's so involved that Eli has to shake him out of his revive to leave, it's getting late and Eli's surprisingly still sober. Eli pulls him up and he staggers with Eli towards the Hearse. Her words are eating at his ears and her touch is still burning it's way into his system. He ducks into the vehicle and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, she'll figure him out and make things a little less difficult.


A/N: Ew, I made angst. Shitty angst but still angst. Gawd, whut have I done? -fails at life in ways never thought of before- Review my fagotry, there is no other way for me to improve it.

A/N: I went back and edited it, I think I fixed enough mistakes for it to pass as literature.