Chapter Text
His legs tremble as he kneels in front of the toilet, linoleum flooring cooling his skin. He takes a deep breath and slides two well-practiced fingers down his throat. He gags and does it again, and after one or two tries he's puking. Puking up the little food he ate. Only an apple and some crackers today. Too fucking much . He thinks to himself as he clings to the porcelain, shaking as bile creeps up his throat as he dry heaves, his body trying to expel what’s not there. He slowly stops, shaking as he stands, staring at himself in the mirror. Sunken eyes and pale, blotchy skin, trembling hands, and thinning hair. He turns on the faucet, cupping water in his hands. He drinks the water, sloshing it around in his mouth to wash out the taste of bile and vomit. He spits it out, wiping a hand over his lips, and throwing a piece of gum in his mouth to wash out the taste.
A knock on the door and a cheerful voice break him out of his despair. “What’s taking so long, dingus! Trying to get out of working?” Robin calls. Steve forces a soft chuckle, pasting a smile on his face before unlocking and opening the door.
“No, No, just making sure I look good.” Steve jokes, landing a soft smack to the top of Robin's head, making her scoff and shoo him away. Steve makes his way back to the counter and is greeted by his ‘favorite’ customer. Erica Sinclair.
“Can I have a sample of the U.S.S. Butterscotch?” She asks, her voice already making his head hurt. He complies, grabbing a small sample spoon and handing it to her. She hums before speaking again. “Now, can I sample Pirates Bounty?” Again, Steve grabs the small spoon, scooping a bit of ice cream and handing it to her. “And can I try Hidden Treasure?” She asks.
“Look kid, new policy, only 2 samples per person per day,” Steve remarks, pointing to the small sticky note he put up this morning, expecting Erica’s arrival.
“Since when has this bullshit rule been in place? Since I arrived, I assume?” Erica snarks, giving Steve the stink eye.
“Hey, language, unless you want me telling your mom about how you talk…” Steve teases, a signature smile on his face as he chews his gum, Erica scoffs and puts a dollar and two quarters on the counter.
“I’ll take the U.S.S. Butterscotch, thank you very much.” She spits, walking over to the counter where Robin scoops ice cream, putting it in a waffle cone before handing it to her. As she leaves with her group of friends, Robin turns to Steve.
“She really is insufferable? Walking around like she owns the place.” Robin laughs, smiling widely at Steve. He smiles back but it doesn't really reach his eyes. “Can’t believe she does this every day. I mean, the rule was smart, just to get her out of our hair. She reminds me a lot of Will a lot, actually. Not in the wear he's obnoxious like her, but Will likes to…Y’know, take a while with things. Think them over, and…” She trails off as she looks up at Steve, nudging his leg with her foot. “Earth to Steve? Are you there?”
“Yeah-Yeah, I am, I’m just…Thinking.” Steve mutters, running a hand through his hair like he always does, partly to make it look normal, partly so he can actually see.
“Thinking about that date you got? Who’s it with again, Stacy? I think she could be the one. She always used to stare at you in Mrs. Clicks class. She used to play Clarinet, and she sat next to me and I would always be staring at her…” Robin says dreamily. Steve looks confused, why would Robin be staring at her. “Oh, uh, because she was really good at playing and-and helped me stay on beat,” Robin says quickly, a blush on her cheeks.
“Yeah…I hope she is, I just…You know Kate? I went out with her a week ago and it just…didn’t feel right, I mean, she was pretty but just like… Not right, y’know? She didn’t connect with me like I wanted.” Steve explains, nodding. “Oh, uh, it’s about closing time, do you need me to drive you home Robs?” He asks, quickly trying to change the subject.
“Yeah, Sure, I just have to put my bike in the backseat.” Steve nods, and starts to close up shop, putting extra ice cream away in the freezer and turning off the lights, stepping out after Robin locked the doors. He sighs and walks softly and silently beside Robin out to his car. It’s dark outside which gives Steve the chills a bit, reminds him of…everything that had happened. He has Robin lead him to the bike and helps her throw the bike in the backseat. He slips into the driver's side, turning on the car and sliding a cassette of his favorite music. ABBA!, Tears For Fears and Wham!, all of his favorites.
Robin groans, Steve has been playing the same tape for years. “You need to start listening to some good music, like Mötley Crüe or something, literally, just like, look at one of my cassette tapes, I have good music. You literally have the same music taste as my mom.” She complains. Steve just chuckles and waves a hand at her
“Well, your mom has spectacular music taste then.” Steve chuckles dryly, staring straight at the road as he drives. Robin is beside him, singing along quietly to the song, tapping her fingers against the door.
A little while later they get to her house, and they say their goodbyes before Robin walks into her house, Steve sitting outside in the car the entire time, making sure she gets inside safe. Once the door closes, he pulls out of the driveway, making his way home. When he finally gets there, he looks down at the clock. 10:37 P.M. He pulls his keys out the ignition, closing the door and wandering inside. He makes his way to his room, turning lights on as he does, before sitting down on his bed. He grabs a few things from his drawer, some sweatpants and a shirt.
He changes out of his scoops ahoy outfit, standing only in his boxers in front of the mirror. He looks in it and criticizes himself, turning to the side, and cursing at himself. It’s not getting better, he’s not getting smaller. His thighs are thinner, skinnier than before, everywhere is, but he’s not as small as he wants. He doesn't really see himself. He doesn’t see the frail frame he holds, the tremble in his limbs from malnutrition, his ribs sticking through his skin. He doesn't see it and he wants more. He staggers to the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet. He usually only does this once a day, but he needs more. He needs more. More out. Again, the familiar feeling of fingers sliding down his throat comes, and the aching in his stomach as his body tries to expel what’s not there, bile sliding up his throat, stomach cramping and pushing tears from his eyes. This time the bile is a yellow-ish green, tasting sour and acidic. He coughs and cradles his stomach, falling back against the wall as he shakes. Head falling back against the cold tiles. Sobs wrack his frame, tears streaming quickly down his cheeks. He feels so bad. So disgusting, so
unwanted.
He needs someone, something to come save him, to help him, to make his brain work right but he has no one. He doesn’t have a person, someone who’s his.
He stands on shaky legs, gasping for breaths, coughing at the dryness in his throat. He rushes to the sink, filling a glass with water to wash the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He stands there. Staring down at the sink, hands shaking.
Today is a bad fucking day, Steve decides as he wanders to the bedroom. As he slides under the covers, he's greeted by a familiar feeling. He grabs the small box, opening it. Inside are a few miniscule things. Band-aids, a pocket knife, and disinfecting wipes. He doesn’t have a name for it, he just has it. He grabs it, looking ahead of him, not at what he’s doing. He’s distant, not there. He lets out a sigh as he feels the reassuring weight of the blade in his hands. He flips it open and raises the blade in front of him. He has a decision to make. Where should he choose? Chest, thighs, shoulders. Each viable option. He decides on his shoulders for tonight, raising the blade on the tight skin before cutting. He goes deep this time, relishing in the sting of the blade, the felling of the blood bubbling to the surface.
He sits there, letting it bleed for a minute or so, not caring if it drips down his arms onto the bed sheets. They’re already covered in stains, bile, vomit, blood, piss, food. He looks back at his ‘kit’ of sorts, the bandaids, the wipes, and thinks fuck it. He shoves the blade back into place and decides against caring for it. For himself. He slides the kit underneath the blankets, and lays down on his side, the side he didn’t cut on. His eyes flutter close as he feels blood running down his arms and chest, tickling his skin. He leaves it, enjoying the tease, the agony. The blankets are pulled tightly around his shoulders and he tries to forget, tries to imagine. He links his fingers with his own, sighing as he closes his eyes, trying to believe, and for a moment, he does. For a moment it’s bliss. He imagines, there by his side, is someone, a hand gently cradling his waist while the other intertwines with Steve’s and it’s the best feeling he’s ever had, but it doesn’t last. He opens his eyes and sees it’s just himself, and now, he doesn’t feel a gentle hand but a throbbing in his shoulder. Feels the blood seeping. He curses at himself and his eyes flutter closed. He sleeps.
🔴⭐🍦⭐🔵
September 15, 1978
Steve is curled up on the couch, watching Looney Tunes and eating Cap'n Crunch. All is peaceful except for the sounds of screams echoing through the halls. He ignores it, and is used to it. He turns up the volume of the TV, focusing on watching his favorite characters bound across the screen, singing songs and smiling widely. He sings along softly. He recorded this one VHS, and watches it on repeat. It always helps him feel safe. Far away from the chaos of his life. The door swings open, and out walks his dad, angry and breathing heavily. He’s wearing his coat and holding a bag.
“Where are you going, Daddy?” Steve asks, pausing the episode to turn to his father, confused on his departure at such an early hour.
“I’m just going out. I'll be back later.” He lies. He’s fighting his way to the door, out of his mothers grip.
“Please John, don’t leave me! I need you! I can’t live without you, you’re my light!” She sobs, falling to her knees as she clings to the bottom of his fathers coat, sobbing as snot drips from her nose.
“Let go of me, Carol! I don't want this anymore, I don't care! I'm leaving!” His father yells, trying to get her away. Steve stands up, making his way to his dad as well.
“Dad, you have to stay! You promised you would take me camping, you have to stay!” He begs. He'd been looking forward to his first ever camping trip, especially one with his father, and he doesn't want to lose the opportunity or his dad.
“I'll do it one day, kid, I promise.” He says, gently patting Steve's head and ruffling his hair.
And Steve is stupid. Steve believes him. Believes that his father will come back, just for a moment, and he smiles. He smiles and nods.
“Okay.” He says, hugging his dad softly before standing beside his sobbing mother, not understanding her desperation. “I'll see you then, okay?” He adds.
“Yes, or course son.” His father says, smiling softly before walking out the door. Steve and his mother stand there till they hear the car door slam, and the revenge of the engine. Then, Steve goes back to watching looney tunes, and his mom goes to the bedroom. Steve doesn't pay much attention to her, drawn to the TV screen as he eats the rest of his soggy Captain Crunch.
🔴⭐🍦⭐🔵
When Steve wakes up his heart is pounding, chest heaving as he pulls in heavy breaths. The next thing he realizes is the wetness between his legs. It surrounds his thighs and lower stomach. Again. He fucking wet the bed. He could cry right now, he really wants to. He feels gross. Stupid. He shouldn't be wetting the bed at 18 (I think, double check) years-old, but he does. And today isn't the first time. He stands up, pulling his soiled shorts off and throwing them into the growing pile of dirty, piss stained clothes. He stands there for a moment, just thinking, breathing, and then he starts to move, pulling off the sheets. Luckily, a month or so ago he bought plastic sheets as he realized he had this…problem. He wipes those down with paper towels and water and he honestly doesn't care that his room, this sheet, especially reeks of piss. He just lays back down, the small amount of cleaning, working he did exhausting him. Steve now stands as he sees the moment escecalating. He walks over to his father, and speaks.
“But what about the camping trip, dad? You promised you’d take me camping with you one time, you have to stay for that.” He says, looking up at his dad, tears welling in his eyes. He had been looking forward to that trip for months. He isn't even sad that his dad is leaving, he’s just sad he can’t go on a trip that was never promised to him.
“Yeah, son, I know. I’ll come back soon, and we will go on that trip, okay?” He asks softly, reaching out to gently tap Steve’s head and ruffle his hair. And then, Steve is stupid. He believes him. Believes in his heart that his father would come back. Would come back for him in a matter of days. He nods, moving to stand beside his mother again, and she cries, but Steve doesn’t. He feels disappointed that the trip will be postponed, but, really, he isn’t sad.
His mother clings to him, like Steve is all she has left, and he is. She sobs as the car door slams, and she sees the car pulling out of the driveway, speeding away. She sobs as Steve leaves, unable to understand her feelings, going back to looney tunes and soggy Captain Crunch.
Days go on like this. Every morning Steve rises early, waiting and hoping for his father to come back. He promised, he reminds himself. He said he would come back, and Steve knows his father. He will come back.
🔴⭐🍦⭐🔵
Tuesday, December 3, 1985
Steve wakes suddenly, heart pounding, chest heaving. He shoots up, clutching his chest, trying to to cry. The next thing he notices is the wetness between his legs. It surrounded his thighs, stopping near the middle of his stomach. He wet the bed. Again. It’s been a problem for a while but he tries to ignore it because he’s literally 18, he’s not a child anymore. He stands from the mess quickly, stripping himself of his soiled shorts until he's standing in his wet boxers, the edge of his shirt, also wet. He’s embarrassed, humiliated, scared, and for a moment he doesn’t recognize the throbbing pain in his shoulder, but now he does. The wound is no longer bleeding, but it hurts like hell, a dull ache spreading over his entire shoulder and a stabbing pain over the thick cut. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve cared more but he didn’t, and now, he’s regretting it, but also so glad he didn’t do that. The sting is nice, and reminds him that this is punishment. That he’s worthless, pathetic.
He pulls the soaked sheet off of his bed, throwing it into the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. His hands shake as he leaves his room, stomach growling and cramping. His body is begging for food, begging for some type of sustenance. He ignores it, and goes to the cupboards. He pulls out his water bottle, and fills it to the brim with water. He starts to drink the water quickly, trying to dull the hunger. He finishes it and fills it up again, this time drinking it slowly. He then goes to his drawer, takes off his soiled boxers, throwing on a clean pair before staggering to the bathroom. He hates this room. It’s the place where he has to look. I Have to see. His face, his body, his pain, his blood.
He pulls his shirt off over his head, studying himself in the mirror. He hates it. He’s on Testosterone, but hasn’t gotten top surgery yet, and it kills him inside Every time he looks at himself. He tries to search for the changes, for the difference it’s making but he can’t find it. He can’t seem to recognize any changes in himself. His face looks the same, maybe a short stubble on his chin but that’s not what he wants. His hair, a short mullet, helps hide it a bit, the feminine shape of his body, his face. But it doesn't do much. Everyone assumes he’s a girl. Everyone. Robin did, when they first met. When he went to get the interview for Scoops Ahoy, the manager called him, Miss, and he almost broke down into tears. His voice is deeper now, but really, there's barely a change he can recognize in himself. There's nothing that’s the “light in the tunnel”, for Steve. He’s the same, everyone thinks he’s the same, and at this rate, it might be like that forever.
He hasn’t taken his binder off in days. He knows it's bad, he can literally feel the strain it puts on his lungs, the ache in his ribs, but he doesn't care. It’s gross. Absolutely revolting. When he first got it, a month or so ago, it was bright white. It’s brown and yellow in some spots, built up from constant, continuous wear. It wasn't designed for this, Steve’s body wasn’t designed to be confined for days. Weeks, even, so today, he says fuck it and leans forward, yanking it off of his chest. When he does, he can finally breathe easy, but his eyes are tightly shut, blocking any view of this monstrosity. Of himself. As he turns towards the mirror, he bites his lip, trying desperately to find the courage in himself somewhere to look. To glance at himself, at what he looks like. He does. His eyes slide open, and invite the sight of himself in the mirror and he wants to cry.
Scars. Everywhere. Scars that are there to show his hatred, his disgust towards this part of his body. These scars are the worst, as well. When he cuts his chest, he goes deep. Really drags out the process to feel the pain, to show his contempt. The lines dragging across his chest, unlike the others, aren’t thin, these are thick lines. Not made by a blade or something delicate, but by glass. Shattered glass is worse, he’s come to know. It cuts thick lines, going deeper and causing more pain so it was perfect for the job. He never really had a big chest, thankfully, not wanting one, but it’s still hard to see himself like this. Exposed, fake, not himself. His hands shake as he grips the basin of the sink, tears sliding silently from his cheeks.
He moves silently, a skill he’d learned as a child, going into the medicine cabinet to grab an extra band aid. There's only a few left, and he unwraps two, sticking them both on his shoulder to dull the pain, to make it bearable to go to work. He places them over the cut, and then grabs a towel to wipe up the dried blood on his arms and the little bit on his chest. He looks down at his watch, and realizes he’s late for work. Kieth told him that if it happened again, he’d be fired. He was going to wash his binder, but he doesn't have time today so, sadly, he throws on a sports bra. It’s the closest thing to his binder. He walks out of the bathroom with shaky legs, breathing heavy as he tries not to freak out, to cry. Hiis discarded Scoops Ahoy outfit is thrown at the foot of his bed. He grabs it, pulling down the sweatpants and yanking the shorts up his legs. Then the shirt and shoes, and finally the hat. He makes his way to the kitchen and he feels his stomach grumble, looks at the food and is drawn to it. He swallows thickly and pushes the thought to the back of his head. He’d eat something…Later. He grabs his keys from the bowl by the door and heads out.
The drive to work is actually pretty peaceful. The nature outside is beautiful, snow falling gently onto the tree tops, coating them with white. He sings along softly as Last Christmas plays on the radio. As he pulls into Starcourt mall he notices there aren’t many cars in the parking lot, it will most likely be a slow day. He stops his car, stepping outside, closing the door behind him. He makes his way to the mall, cursing at the stupid outfit he has to wear, basically his whole legs exposed to the cold. He hurries inside, making his way to Scoops Ahoy to see Robin already opening up shop. He smiles at her softly, walking back into the freezer to pull out the ice cream, setting it up in the display for the customers to see.
“Hey, Robs, you wanna take over the register today?” Steve asks, hauling two containers of ice cream to the counter, setting them into place, grabbing a pen out of his pocket to write a note that they’re out of Treasure Cove, arms somewhat caged around him, trying to hide his chest as best he can.
Robin looks over at him, and sighs. She’s one of the only people who know she's trans and she knows that it’s bad. It's bad that he doesn't have his binder. Knows he'll be terrified all day.
“Hey, what happened? You don’t have your binder on, and I know you barely leave the house without it.” Robin asks, concerned knitted in her brows.
“Yeah, just…I didn’t have time this morning…I'll register today.” He mumbles trying to change the subject.
“Yeah, sure.” Robin says quietly, sensing Steve’s discomfort and eagerness to change the subject. The mall is slowly starting to become busy, others walking in and opening up shop, a few stragglers checking out store displays as they wait for them to be open. Steve walks past Robin, and heads to the backroom. He turns on the radio to a random station, and, as expected, it’s playing Christmas music. Every station is right now. Steve keeps it playing but lowers the volume as he sits down at the table. He feels weird, wrong, knowing people are going to assume he’s a girl today, not think about it even for a second. Robin fishes setting up and sits down beside him, keeping the door open so she can see if any new customers come.
“You want a scoop of ice cream? I was gonna get myself some.” Robin asks, trying to be compassionate as she looks over at Steve, walking over to the counter. Steve freezes at the mention of food, especially one so high in sugar, in calories. He thinks for a moment. He hasn’t eaten in days, and one scoop of ice cream can’t do that much. And, he has to pretend to be around Robin so she won’t find out. He’ll just take it in a dish.
“Yeah, I’ll have, uh, a scoop of vanilla in a dish.” He says.
“A dish, really? You used to go ham on waffle cones.” She exclaims dramatically.
“Hey, people change.” Steve says, a smile plastered to his face. He throws Robin a thumbs up and she walks out of the room. A minute or so later she comes back in, a cone with 3 scoops on it, Pirate Cove, U.S.S. Butterscotch, and strawberries, and a dish of Vanilla in her other hand. Steve grabs the ice cream from her and the small spoon. Robin sits in front of him, eating the ice cream quickly, like she's ravenous. He eats slowly, stomach lurching at the intrusion of food. He eats it though, and God, does it taste good. It’s the first sugary thing he’s had in weeks, and his first food in general since last Tuesday. He finishes with a shaky hand, throwing his things away in the garbage before walking up to the register, knowing customers will be arriving soon.
Around 30 minutes later, there are a few people sitting in the small seats and booths in the small area they have when the door swings open, the bell ringing. Steve’s eyes are drawn up to the new customers. A man, probably in his 40's, and behind him, a younger guy, probably around Steve’s age. He has long curly hair cascading down his shoulders, black ripped jeans on and a shirt that has “METALLICA” transcribed across the front in a large, flamboyant font. The man walks up to the counter, the long haired boy waiting behind.
“Can I get a scoop of Strawberry waffle cone, Miss?” He asks. Steve grimaces at the name, teeth clenching. He looks down at his hands, pushing tears back.
“Uh, yeah, that’ll be $1.25, please.” He mumbles. The many hands over two dollar bills and Steve rings it up, passing his change back. As the man walks away he mutters something about ‘Customer service theses days’
“Uh, hey man. Can I get a scoop of Pirates Cove?” The long haired boy asks, and Steve is in love. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he calls him ‘man’. Maybe he saw the discomfort on his face when he was called ‘miss’ but he’s already head over heels for this guy he’s never met. This is literally like the Tears for Fears song. ‘He didn’t find out until he was Head Over Heels.’ Jesus christ.
“Oh, uh, y-yeah, I-I can uh…” Steve stutters. He cuts himself off and goes to start scooping the ice cream into the cone, giving up on finishing what he’s trying to say. He walks back with one scoop of Pirates Cove in a waffle cone.
“Oh, shit, you uh, you wanted a waffle cone, right? Not a cake cone? And uh, yeah, it’ll be $1.75.” Steve stumbles, holding the ice cream in his hands.
“Yeah, yeah, a waffle cone is fine, here.”
Eddie hands Steve the money, and their hands brush and god, Steve’s gonna actually die. A blush spreads to his face and he feels like he’s on fire. He puts the money into the register, and hands Eddie the cone quickly. He catches a soft wave in his direction from the guy, and he feels a bright blush spread over his cheeks.
Robin walks toward him, leaning on the counter beside him, following his line of eyesight to the guy who’s sitting at a table with a girl with bright blonde hair and blue eyes. Fuck. He had no chance with him. “You got it bad, huh?” Robin asks, nudging Steve in the shoulder with her finger.
“Yeah,” Steve says, sighing, “Yeah, I do.”