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Steam clings to the mirror as Steve carefully steps out of the shower, fogging everything in a soft white. It curls along the ceiling and softens every edge—the tile, the lights, the mirror above the sink.
For a second, he just stands there, his towel slung low around his hips as water slowly drips down his spine.
It’s been eight weeks.
He tells himself that like it means something definitive.
Eight weeks since his surgery. One year on testosterone.
He should know what he looks like by now.
The mirror is fogged over completely. A blank slate. A mercy. Steve steps forward anyway, wet feet sounding against the hard tiles of the bathroom floor. He lifts his hand and drags his palm across the glass, clearing a wide, uneven streak through the condensation.
The mirror clears, and someone who looks almost like him stares back.
A flat chest. Damp brown hair clinging to his forehead. Shoulders broader than they used to be. A faint line of darker hair trailing down his stomach.
He exhales slowly.
Okay.
He leans closer, studying the body in the mirror’s reflection. The scars are still pink. Not angry, not fresh, but not invisible either. They sit just beneath his pecs, curved and deliberate, like careful handwriting that hasn’t quite faded. He traces one of them absentmindedly, thumb brushing along the raised skin.
They don’t hurt anymore. Not really. They just… exist.
Steve presses two fingers against the centre of his chest, where it’s smooth now. Where it used to feel heavy. Foreign.
This is what he wanted. He remembers wanting it so badly it felt like it was lodged under his ribs. Like he couldn’t breathe around it. And now—now he looks at himself and waits for the click. For the moment his reflection locks into place and feels like home.
It doesn’t. Not exactly.
Steve takes a step back, the mirror revealing more of his body as he turns slightly to the side. As if it would help it click faster. His shoulders are broader than they were last year. Testosterone did that—filled him out. There’s more muscle there now, subtle but real. His jaw is sharper too. Not dramatically, but enough that he notices it in photos.
He should feel proud. Happy.
Instead his eyes drift lower. His waist curves inward more than he wants it to, his hips protruding outward enough that it shrinks his waist further. He turns a little more, examining the slope of them, the way the towel hangs. The line from rib to hip isn’t straight, it never has been.
He sucks in slightly, just to see. Better. He releases the breath. Worse again.
His stomach tightens. Not from pain, from something quieter, heavier.
It’s stupid. He knows bodies aren’t blueprints. Knows that men come in all shapes. He knows that, said it himself. He believes it when it’s about anyone else.
But the mirror feels clinical. Unforgiving.
He lifts his chin and studies his face instead. Desperately trying to find something to be remotely proud of.
The testosterone deepened his voice months ago. The first time it cracked, he’d laughed so hard he nearly cried. There’s faint stubble along his jaw now—uneven, patchy maybe, but real. He rubs at it, listening to the soft scratch under his fingers.
He likes that part. He does. But his cheeks still feel soft to him, less defined as he would’ve hoped. His eyelashes are also too long. His lips are too soft. He presses his lips together, frowning slightly at the shape of them.
‘Who are you trying to convince?’ he thinks.
The mirror doesn’t answer.
He steps closer again, until his breath fogs the cleared patch again, blurring the edges of his reflection. For a second, it’s easier. Less defined.
He wipes it clear quickly.
No.
He doesn’t want blurry. He wants clarity. He wants to look and feel the certainty everyone else seems to think he has.
His friends tell him he looks great. Happier even.
He is.
So why does it still feel like he’s waiting?
Steve braces his hands on the edge of the sink and leans in, studying the flatness of his chest again, more closely this time, like he’ll uncover the secret to finally see himself the way others do.
Eight weeks.
The swelling’s gone down. The binder’s gone. He can walk around shirtless in his own apartment without feeling like he’s holding his breath.
He should feel free. Lighter. Happier. Proud.
Instead, there’s this quiet, persistent thought:
Almost.
He looks almost like the version of himself he imagined.
Almost like the guys at the gym. Almost like the men he sees in movies. Almost like the person in his head.
Almost is worse than before, sometimes.
Before, at least, the wrongness had been obvious. Concrete. Something he could point to and say: that’s it. That’s the problem.
Now it’s unclear. Harder to name.
He runs his hand down his side again, pressing at his hip bone like he can flatten it through will alone.
Nothing changes. Of course nothing changes.
His throat feels tight suddenly, but not in a dramatic way. Not tears, just pressure.
Years ago, he would have killed for this body. Now he’s standing here dissecting it like it’s a draft that still needs adjusting. He turns sideways again. He straightens his posture, rolls his shoulders back. That looks better. More like he’d imagined. More solid. He relaxes unconsciously and the illusion slips. His gaze flicks back to his scars. They’re proof. Proof of what he survived. Of what he fought for.
Steve knows he’s lucky. He knows access to surgery, to hormones, to care—it’s not guaranteed for everyone. The guilt creeps into his chest fast.
You got what you wanted. Why isn’t it enough?
His jaw tightens at the thought. Because it’s not just about the surgery, or the hormones. It’s about years of being seen wrong. Of being misnamed. Of shrinking himself. Of bracing for mirrors. It’s about wanting the outside to match the inside and realising that “match” isn’t a switch. Instead, it’s a gradient.
He lifts his hand again and presses it flat over his heart. It beats steadily beneath his palm. He closes his eyes. If he doesn’t look, maybe it’s easier to believe. Yet, when he opens them again, the unfinished reflection is still there.
Still him.
Still not quite settled.
Done adjusting. Done negotiating with glass and light and angles. And yet, he doesn’t feel done.
He feels in progress. And progress is messy. Uneven. Too slow.
The thought doesn’t comfort him. It just makes him tired.
His shoulders slump before he can stop them. The version of himself he’d carefully arranged in the mirror—chest lifted, jaw set, spine straight—dissolves instantly. His body settles back into its natural lines. Softer. Smaller.
More him.
He stares at the scars again. Eight weeks. They’re healing well. The surgeon said so. Clean lines. Minimal swelling. Everything textbook. They still look foreign. Not wrong. Just… unfamiliar. Like they belong to someone braver. Someone more certain.
His vision blurs slightly, and for a second he thinks it’s the steam reclaiming the mirror again. But when he blinks, the blur stays. His throat tightens, sudden and sharp.
He swallows. It doesn’t help.
“I did everything right,” he murmurs under his breath.
Hormones. Appointments. Consultations. Waiting lists. Paperwork. Needles. Recovery.
He did everything right.
So why did it still feel like he’s squinting at a stranger?
A tear slips free before he realises it’s there. It slides down the side of his nose and drops to the porcelain sink below. Steve inhales sharply, like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing.
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his palm.
He isn’t sobbing. He isn’t breaking apart. It’s quieter.
The tears just keep coming.
Slow. Steady. Uninvited.
They blur the mirror further, warping the reflection until his face looks stretched and wrong again. He lets out a shaky breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
Of course.
He grips the edge of the sink harder, knuckles paling. His chest feels tight—not with regret. Not with doubt about transitioning. That isn’t it.
He doesn’t miss who he was. He just doesn’t know how to settle into who he is. His eyes trace every line again, harsher now: too soft, too curved, too small, not enough. The words don’t feel dramatic, instead they feel factual. Clinical. Like notes scribbled in the margins.
Another tear falls. Then another. He presses his palm over his mouth to muffle the small broken sound that tries to climb out of his throat. His shoulders tremble once, twice. Barely noticeable.
He hates crying about this. Hates that even after everything—after the shorts and the surgery and the way his voice finally sounds like it belongs to him—the mirror can still undo him this easily.
“Be grateful,” he whispers hoarsely. The word tastes bitter. Grateful doesn’t mean finished. Grateful doesn’t mean immune.
His breathing turns uneven, shallow. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that just makes the tears spill faster. They slide down over skin that finally feels closer to right, and he doesn’t know whether that makes it better or worse.
There’s a soft knock at the door. Not loud. Not urgent. Just gentle.
“Steve?” Eddie’s voice carries through the wood, warm and careful. “Babe, we’ve gotta leave soon if we’re going to make that reservation.”
Fuck. Their date.
Steve freezes. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been standing there.
He swallows hard, trying to steady his breathing, wiping at his face quickly with both hands. It only smears the dampness across his skin.
“Yeah— yeah, I know,” he calls back automatically, trying to sound somewhat normal. “Just need a second.”
His voice cracks. There’s silence on the other side of the door. Another softer knock.
“You good in there?” Eddie asks, quieter this time. Closer. The concern in his voice is harder to miss now. “You didn’t slip in there, did you?”
Steve presses his forehead against the cool mirror, not caring that it fogs again instantly. His shoulders shake once more, a small, helpless tremor he can’t fully suppress. He doesn't answer right away.
“No,” he says, a little too fast. “I didn’t fall.”
His reflection looks wrecked. It was obvious he’s been crying. Not how he wants to look before a date. Not how he wants to look at all.
“I’m okay, Ed,” he adds quickly, but it comes out thin. Fragile.
There’s no rattle of the handle. No push against the door. Just silence. Eddie’s still there. He knows it without seeing him—can picture him on the other side, probably leaning close, probably frowning slightly. Waiting. Not forcing it. Not assuming.
The waiting makes something twist painfully in Steve’s chest. Because Eddie always does that. Always gives him space like it’s something fragile and valuable. Like Steve is. The tears won’t stop. They keep sliding down his face, hot and humiliating, catching at the corner of his mouth. He swipes at them again, uselessly.
He opens his mouth to insist—to say he’s truly fine and that he just needed a minute—but his throat closes up around the words, trapping them in. All that comes out is another shaky breath that sounds worse than if he’d just stayed quiet.
There’s a soft shift on the other side of the door. Fabric against wood. Maybe it was Eddie’s palm resting there.
“Steve,” Eddie whispers, his voice low and careful in that way it only gets when he’s trying not to startle him. “Are you okay?”
The question lands heavier than the others. Not about slipping. Not about the reservation. Just him.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut again, another tear spilling free.
“...I’m fine,” he tries, but it breaks halfway through.
The silence stretches.
“Steve,” Eddie whispers, even gentler this time. “Can I come in?”
Steve’s stomach twists uncomfortably, but despite his hesitance, a small, agreeing sound creeps out of his throat. Steve hears the soft click of the door opening and he focuses his gaze down, feeling too embarrassed to face Eddie in his moment of vulnerability, even if he’s seen Steve like this multiple times before.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie sighs, his voice dropping into something softer and soothing.
Steve tries to harden his face. To cover up any evidence that reveals that he’s been crying. It fails, of course. Eddie always could see right through him—not that there was much to look for. The evidence was clear as day.
He feels when Eddie’s hand gently comes to rest on his shoulder—a reassuring gesture—and his face crumples instantly. The tears continue to stream down his cheeks as he buries his face into Eddie’s shoulder. Still too ashamed to look at him directly.
His whole body trembles as Eddie tentatively wraps his arms around him, nerves thrumming just underneath his skin. Steve’s arms feel limp as he attempts to reciprocate the action, his hands only make it as far as Eddie’s hips. Eddie seems to get the intention anyway as his hands move up and down the expanse of his back. Steve only reacts with a pitiful sniffle.
He feels guilty.
They’re supposed to be going out for dinner tonight—Eddie’s treat. Now those plans are probably off the table because Eddie’s too sweet to force Steve out after his small tantrums. All because Steve can’t handle his own reflection. It’s pathetic really.
“I’m sorry…” Steve whispers finally, his voice trembling as he grips onto the hem of Eddie’s shirt.
Steve notices as Eddie’s hand stills on the small of his back, a failed attempt at comfort. If anything, it makes Steve’s guilt only sink further in his stomach.
“Sorry?” Eddie repeats softly.
“For ruining it,” Steve mutters, staring at the fabric twisted between his fingers. “Dinner,” he clarifies, “I know you were excited and I just—” His throat tightens.
“I messed it up.”
There’s a small huff of breath next to him. Not annoyed. More disbelief.
“Hey.” Eddie’s hand shifts, sliding from his back to the nape of his neck instead. His fingers press warm and steady there, thumb brushing just beneath his ear. “Steve… c’mere.”
Steve only buries his face deeper into Eddie’s shoulder.
“I don’t want to,” he mumbles thickly, voice warped by fabric and tears.
Eddie huffs a quiet breath, not annoyed, just fond and brings his other hand up, gently hooking a finger under Steve’s chin. “Yeah, I know. Still. Look at me.”
It’s not forceful. Just patient. Slightly cheesy too.
After a moment, Steve lets himself be guided up. His lashes are damp, cheeks flushed and splotchy, eyes stubbornly glassy. He feels exposed all over again.
“I don’t care about the reservation,” Eddie says softly once he has his attention. “It’s just food. We can go tomorrow. Or next week. Or never go out at all and order greasy takeout instead.”
Despite himself, something in Steve cracks, but not in a painful way. A small, wet sound escapes him. Half a laugh. Half a breath.
“Greasy takeout?” he manages, voice wrecked.
Eddie’s mouth twitches. “The greasier the better. Real classy stuff. Grease soaking through the paper bag, five napkins minimum.”
A shaky chuckle slips out of Steve before he can stop it, tears still clinging to his lashes. It feels strange, laughing while his chest still aches, but it loosens something tight inside him.
“Won’t we get fat?” Steve sniffles, the question soft and half-serious in that fragile way he gets when he’s not fully out of his head yet.
Eddie gasps, straightening like he’s just been personally offended. “Get fat?” he repeats, scandalised. “Steven Harrington, you run three times a week and read ingredient labels for fun.”
“I do not—”
“You do,” Eddie insists gravely. “You’re an absolute heathen. A menace to society. Far too healthy. It’s unnatural."
Steve narrows his eyes faintly, though they’re still glassy. “You’re more of a menace than I am.”
Eddie recoils as if he’s been struck. “You wound me, my love,” he declares, pressing a hand to his chest. “Me? A menace? I am but a humble patron of the arts. A supporter of local pizza establishments.”
He shakes his head solemnly. “To be slandered so cruelly in my own home. I shall never recover.”
Despite the ache still sitting heavy in his ribs, a laugh bubbles out of Steve—shaky and wet, but real.
Eddie’s voice drops into the grand, theatrical cadence he always uses when running D&D campaigns for the kids. “Oh woe is me,” he sighs, slow and melodramatic. “My sweetheart, my beloved, has wounded me greatly! Not only do you call me a menace, but you refuse to suffer the greasy fate with me! The very doom of caloric indulgence we were destined to share!”
Steve snickers, a hiccuping laugh that makes his cheeks sting with tears, and it loosens the tight knot in his chest.
“You see,” Eddie continues, voice still rich with mock seriousness, “the cruel hand of betrayal is upon me! Here I stand, a loyal and utterly dashing rogue, undone by my beloved’s refusal to embrace the decadent peril of takeout!”
Steve snorts, trying to stifle another laugh, though his chest still feels heavy.
Eddie’s thumb brushes slow and grounding along Steve’s neck as he moves back toward him, bringing him back from the storybook absurdity. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs, back to his normal gentle voice. “It’s dinner, Steve. It’s not sacred.”
Steve’s lips press together.
“What matters is you,” Eddie continues, gentler now, more genuine. “If you’re having a rough night, then we handle it. Okay?”
Steve swallows hard, blinking rapidly to clear the last of his tears. He nods once, just barely, but it’s enough. He steps closer, slowly and deliberately, wrapping his arms around Eddie, his face returning into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice muffled but sincere.
Eddie holds him firmly, thumb brushing along the apple of his cheek, and presses a soft kiss to his damp hairline. “Always,” he murmurs.
After a moment, Eddie pulls back, just enough to look at him, still smiling fondly. “How about we do movie night instead? Your pick.”
Steve sniffles, a small laugh escaping. “With takeout?”
“Especially with takeout,” Eddie says, voice teasing again. “Though… I suppose we can include some healthy options this time,” he adds with mock solemnity, letting his thumb brush Steve’s jaw in a tiny playful jab. “For the heathen.”
Steve chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, somehow,” Eddie murmurs, pulling him back in for a quick kiss, “completely yours.”
Steve smirks against his lips, voice quiet. “That was so cheesy.”
“You love it, don’t lie,” Eddie laughs, kissing him again.
Steve smiles against his shoulder, the knot in his chest loosening completely. For the first time in an hour, he feels like it’s okay to just… be here. With Eddie. Just them.
Another moment passes between them before Eddie speaks up again.
“So… do you want to get dressed and I’ll get the takeout?” Eddie asks, voice soothing, thumb brushing absentmindedly over Steve’s cheek.
“Yeah,” Steve nods, stepping back as Eddie makes his move to leave.
Eddie gives him a soft smile. “Don’t take too long,” Eddie calls over his shoulder, grinning slightly. “I expect you back in one piece… and maybe in some pants.”
Steve lets out a soft chuckle, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little.
Once the door closes behind Eddie, he leans against the sink for a moment, taking a slow, steadying breath. The quiet of the apartment feels calmer somehow—less urgent, less heavy—and he can finally breathe without the ache twisting so sharply in his chest.
After a few moments, Steve straightens, brushing damp hair from his forehead—he wouldn’t bother with his whole hair routine tonight. After fixing and drying his hair, Steve moves into the bedroom. He pulls on some clothes, a simple t-shirt and shorts combo. Then, stepping out of the bedroom, he pauses in the doorway and takes in the living room—soft lighting, blankets draped across the couch, all his favourite snacks displayed neatly in a bowl on the coffee table. Eddie must’ve done this while he was in the bathroom.
His chest warms. A fuzzy, light feeling spreads through him, the tension from earlier loosening just a little. For a moment, he just stands there, taking it in. Eddie was too good. It makes Steve’s heart ache a little.
“Takeout should be here in twenty minutes,” Eddie says from the couch, sliding in beside the blanket pile. “But we can start the movie. Your pick, sweetheart.”
Steve smiles, settling onto the couch next to him, curling slightly against the soft cushions as he reaches for the bowl of snacks. He takes a peanut butter bopper, smiling softly as he takes a bite.
Eddie leans back, watching him with a grin. “Alas,” he starts dramatically, voice sliding into that playful, pseudo-narrative tone, “even the health king himself isn’t immune to the temptation of a sweet treat.”
Steve rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Shut up,” he murmurs, taking another bite.
“You see?” Eddie continues, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Even a paragon of virtue can be swayed by buttery goodness.”
Steve leans against him slightly, letting the warmth and comfort of the room sink in. The ache from earlier is still there, but softer now, cushioned by Eddie’s care, his presence.
“Whatever,” Steve snickers quietly, getting up from his spot as he finally takes his pick of Grease, walking over to push the tape into the player before quickly returning to the comforting blankets. “Let’s just watch the movie.”
A little while later, the doorbell rings. Eddie jumps up, grinning, and soon they’re settled back on the couch with their takeout, noodles steaming.
Halfway through the movie, Eddie nudges Steve gently with his elbow, eyes flicking from the screen to him. “Hey…” he says quietly, more tentatively. “So… what were you upset about earlier?”
Steve hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket, staring at the flickering images on the screen. “...It’s hard to explain,” he murmurs, voice low. “I mean… the surgery helped. A lot. I’m really happy. But there are some parts that still look… too feminine? And I feel guilty because I’m not being grateful.”
Eddie shifts closer, letting their legs touch. His hand finds Steve’s, thumb brushing along the back of his hand. “It’s okay…” he murmurs softly. “You don’t have to be perfect, Steve. You’re still a man, even if your brain’s being mean about it.”
Steve’s jaw tightens, eyes still on the flickering screen. “I just… they make me feel like I’m not, and I feel like I should be… more grateful. I don’t know.”
Eddie leans in a little, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Steve’s head. “You are grateful,” he whispers gently, his voice full of warmth. “It’s okay to notice the stuff that still feels off. That doesn’t make you ungrateful, sweetheart. It just makes you human like the rest of us. And I love you like this. All of this.”
Steve exhales slowly, letting himself sink further into Eddie, warmth seeping through him. “...Okay,” he sighs. “Thanks, Eddie.”
“No need to thank me,” Eddie mumbles, thumb still stroking the back of his hand. “Just stay here. That’s enough.”
“That’s so corny,” Steve snorts, a small huff of breath slipping from him.
“You chose a corny romance movie,” Eddie retorts, his other hand moving up to flick Steve’s forehead.
Steve yelps softly as Eddie makes contact with his forehead, swatting his hand away which makes Eddie laugh.
A moment passes and they’re back to sitting quietly on the couch, eyes fixating on the screen in front of them. Steve feels relaxed, his head slipping to rest on Eddie’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice as he falls asleep, finally content as the ache dissipates completely from his body.