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Jon stares himself down in the mirror, critical and sharp.
He’s never exactly disliked how he looked, but he’s never been keen on looking too much at himself in the first place, anyway. He’d watched with a growing sense of comfort as testosterone had made its changes to the angles in his face and the width of his hips, but never looked too long, just because in his opinion, there wasn’t much worth looking at.
Lately, though. Lately he’s found himself stuck in front of the mirror in the mornings.
He’s still wearing his binder. He always wears his binder.
But there’s a swell to his chest that makes his hands itch to pull another one over it, just to see if that flattens him, properly.
It used to be so much easier.
He sighs and hunches his shoulders, then grudgingly shrugs off his shirt and reaches for something baggier, something darker. He tries it on, then tries again. Finally, three shirts in, he defaults back to the first plain white button down, breath shaking a little as he rolls back the cuffs, pointedly avoiding eye contact with his own reflection.
It’s not as though anyone will notice, or comment.
But Jon notices.
And it puts a cold pit in his stomach.
“Martin,” he says before he can stop himself. “I’m getting—can you see my chest?”
Martin’s eyebrows shoot upward.
“I—what do you mean?”
Jon insists, feeling more idiotic by the moment. “My chest. It’s—it’s not as flat as it used to be.”
Martin gives him a tentative, appraising look, then his shock is replaced by a furrowed brow. “Jon. Maybe a little, but honestly? You looked like a stiff breeze could blow you over six months ago.”
“So it’s not—“ Jon swallows hard. “Noticeable?”
Martin shakes his head and gives Jon a soft smile. “No, love. You look healthy.”
Jon tries to let himself be comforted as Martin sets down a cup of tea on his desk, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before he leaves the room, but in his absence, the sickening feeling of dysphoria rolls over Jon again in a wave.
Jon knows he’s a hypocrite in a myriad of ways, but he refuses to allow himself to be one with Martin.
Something about someone so gentle, so soft, makes him determined to be a better person than he’s ever felt like in his life. And it leaves him with a niggling sense of guilt sometimes, but leaving some things unsaid can be the only way he knows to keep his own double standards to himself.
He’s never been anything but grateful Martin’s also trans. There’s something about getting to be with someone whose experience is so similar to his, but also so different, that gives the entire thing a vague sense of awe at how comfortable he is. He’d never thought he could be this comfortable with someone. It’s different. It’s new. And for once, it’s entirely welcome.
And yet—and yet.
When he holds Martin, gets to lay with his head on his chest while they watch bad telly and cuddle on the couch, sometimes he thinks about the binders they both have on under their clothes, and wonders half-enviously how he’d never clocked Martin before he’d seen him without a shirt.
Because Jon, for all his short stature and skinny limbs, is clockable, it feels, by random strangers on the street, even after years on HRT.
He doesn’t often get outright aggression anymore, but sometimes the looks are enough to send him back to his flat and keep him there for days.
He never knows whether it’s about the vitiligo, the long hair, or the transness. Or maybe, it’s all three.
He hates it.
But when Martin takes off his binder at the end of a long day, lets Jon snuggle up to all his freckled warmth in a sleep shirt and boxers, Jon’s appreciative of the pillowy softness in a way he’s never been able to appreciate his own chest. Sometimes he’ll bury his face there and Martin will giggle and stroke his hair. Sometimes they fall asleep that way. Even though Martin never lets Jon sleep in his binder anymore, he’s always careful not to touch.
“Sometimes, I wish you would touch them,” Jon admits abruptly, the words tumbling quietly out of his mouth before he can check himself, as he’s leaning back against the headboard, a book in his hands, Martin’s head pillowed on his thigh. The world outside the windows is lit by a spotlight full moon.
Once again, Martin’s eyebrows shoot upward.
“What, your—?”
“Tits?” Jon finishes for him, dryly.
Martin chuckles. “Yes, Jon. Your tits.”
“They’re just there,” Jon complains, dog-earing the page in his book and letting it fall to the side, looking down into Martin’s big soft gray eyes. He’s one of the only people Jon can make eye contact with without it hurting. His stomach does a little flip at the adoration there. “They’re just inconvenient—they’re not useful for anything.”
Martin smiles, a little sly.
“We could experiment,” he says slowly. “If you wanted to find a use for them, that is.” He pauses, considering. “Or, I’ll do all the lifting after top surgery.”
Jon hopes the rush of gratitude and love is evident on his face, because he doesn’t know how to put it into words. Even so, Martin usually understands.
“I love you,” he manages after a moment of comfortable silence.
Martin nuzzles him, and presses a kiss to his stomach. “I love you, too.”