Work Text:
He looked at himself in the mirror.
The curve of his chest, soft and just heavy enough.
The muscles of his thighs, the lighter skin of his scarred arms.
The freckles on his shoulders, splayed across his cheeks and nose.
The green of his eyes, dark in the faint evening light, bordered by darker lashes.
The curls of his hair, unruly and soft, bouncing with each of his movement. Brushing against his forehead and his nape, comforting in a way that was difficult to explain.
The flat of his stomach, the lines of his hips, the hair on his calves.
The hair on his crotch and the dark line under his belly button, cut short against his skin for comfort.
His hands caressed marked skin, scars and freckles and acne, in a feather touch. It was as if he was discovering his body for the first time again. His hair was short, his fingers indefinitely aching from breaking them too often, and it was no one but himself that was reflected by the mirror.
He allowed a smile on his face, liking the way it made his eyes crinkle. Slowly, he reached for a paper on his desk, without moving his feet from their place on the warm carpet.
He read the things he had heard times and times again - but then, you have to want surgery - you aren’t really transgender if you don’t want to take hormones - stop faking it ! - and tore them apart word by word, letter by letter, pieces falling quietly on the floor at his feet as he went on.
He felt lighter. His hair bounced and his fingers ached and his chest was heavy, and he saw himself when he looked in the mirror.