Chapter Text
Foreman was hot, a fact that pumped through Chase’s blood. He’d noticed the moment the other man walked through the door. He was muscular but not too muscular, perfectly toned. His skin was clear and his face was symmetrical. He was well dressed and professional. His voice was smooth like butter and it made butterflies swarm in Chase’s stomach.
At first it was nothing besides pure physical attraction. Chase was no stranger to the male physique and Foreman’s was nothing to laugh at. Then, they went out for pints. It was supposed to be a one-off but once turned into twice turned into thrice turned into every week for months with no end in sight.
Then pints turned into turned into dinners, sometimes with Cameron sometimes without. Then dinners turned into hanging out at one another’s apartments, watching TV or gaming or just talking and laughing. And Chase’s physical attraction turned emotional. But Foreman was straight, straight as a rod. He had no wiggle room, he didn’t glance at other men, didn’t stare after the waiter with just a few too many buttons unbuttoned. He was straight, Chase was certain. So he let it be.
But after those night, the nights where he’s stare at Foreman out of the corner of his eye when no one was looking (and sometimes, maybe just maybe, Foreman stared back). Those nights he’d sit in his bathroom, staring into the mirror until it was all he could do to not break it in two. He’s picture himself, or the female version of himself, and he’d think about if Foreman would love, no, not love, if Foreman would like him then.
He’d picture himself with long blonde hair, with short painted nails, with a sleek black dress, with limbs that weren’t as long and a chest that was more filled out. And in those fantasies, in those dreams he could picture himself with Foreman. He could see Foreman’s arm wrapped around him, going out to fancy restaurants with him, cuddling in the couch with him, going to bed with him.
Oh god, his sexual fantasies were even worse. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal, really. He wouldn’t even feel guilty about it if he could just picture himself under Foreman. Instead, he pictured some blonde headed girl who looked strangely like him and had a silky Aussie accent. Those thoughts made his head jumbled. They made his body burn and hair feel too short on his head.
And maybe, if one of those nights he impulse purchases a little black dress it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because he’s not a girl and never will be. Not with all the makeup in the world.
And Foreman is straight. Straight as a log and Chase isn’t going to mess up a good thing. Even if all he wants is to mess up Foreman’s perfectly ironed shirts, even if he wants to grab the silk tie he always has on and bring him into a wet kiss. Even if he wants to smear lipstick onto Foreman’s dark skin.
He can’t.
He won’t.
He doesn’t.
Even when he inevitably tries on the dress it doesn’t feel right. Too tight in some places and too loose in others, not complimenting the curves he’d imagined but highlighting his true boxy frame. He doesn’t feel like a girl, it doesn’t spark some revelation. Just makes him that more certain that it’s not meant to be.
He knows Foreman, he knows that Foreman probably wouldn’t even be interested even if he was…which he’s not, for the record. So he continues on.
And if late at night he thinks about Foreman and wonders if he noticed the change. If he noticed Chase’s hair getting long, if he noticed the more form-fitting clothes that he fills out with socks and tissues, if he noticed his perfectly manicured (but never painted) nails. Then that’s no one’s business but his own.