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Ryan's skin was covered in goosebumps. He wasn't sure if it was from the chill of the open kitchen window in the apartment, or from the small items in his hand that seemed to weigh him down, like he was holding his entire world in his hands.
A needle, in one hand, the smaller one, the actual one he would use for the injection, and in the other hand, a small clear vial, liquid sloshing around inside, a months worth of testosterone injections inside. It had his name on it, not the old one, but the new one that he had fought for, Ryan Whelan printed on the side, his date of birth, him and no one else.
Ryan thought he might throw up. He had cried yesterday, on the way home from the pharmacy, when he checked the bag and saw his name printed just about everywhere, on the instructions pamphlets, on the orange pill bottles they stored three months worth of needles in. A constant reminder of what it was for, who he was fighting for, he was fighting for Ryan, for him to be who he had always been.
He'd waited two years for this. Two years of group home beds and caseworker meetings and forms signed in triplicate. Spent a year trying to get emancipated before he could even begin the process of changing his name legally, but their social worker had been trying to get him on testosterone the entire time, trying for both of them. It had been two years of Naim's hand in his under the table while some doctor explained the options, the risks, the timeline. Two years of wanting this so badly his teeth ached with it.
And now he couldn't do it.
He stared at himself in the mirror, he wasn't wearing a binder, too early in the morning for that, he had no plans today, they both had the day off. He was wearing a muscle tank, and he could see the small swell of his breasts through the fabric, he had wanted this so bad, because no amount of working out could fix that, could make him look like the man he knew he was.
"Naim," he called, his voice coming out rough, younger than he wanted it to be. "Naim, c'mere."
Naim appeared in the doorway almost instantly, his hair mused on one side from sleep, his oversized t-shirt, Ryan's t-shirt, stolen weeks ago and never returned, hanging off one narrow shoulder. He had a mug of hot coffee in his hand, fresh from the pot Ryan had begun making for them every morning since they moved in.
"You're not doing it," Naim said, not a question. Ryan had told him he was going to do his shot twenty minutes ago, and he had gone through two cups of coffee since then.
"I can't." Ryan held up the syringe. "I know it's stupid. I know it's just a needle. But I look at it and my brain goes—" He made a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, his crooked nose wrinkling. "My brain just fucking shuts down."
Naim set his coffee down on the countertop. He took the syringe and vial from Ryan's hands, his own fingers steady in a way that Ryan knew was fake, a performance just for him, because Ryan remembers Naim telling him how his mom would have to cover his eyes when he got a flu shot because just the sight of the needle made him woozy.
"I can do it for you," he offered, voice soft, but confident.
"I know you're scared too," Ryan said quietly, guilt building in his gut, his blue eyes fixed on Naim's face. "I know. We can wait. We can call the clinic, see if they have an opening—"
"And pay what?" Naim's voice was sharp, but his hand was gentle when he grabbed Ryan's bare shoulder, thumb rubbing into the meat of it. "We barely made rent this month, you dick. We can't afford to go get it done there." He looked up, his light brown eyes meeting Ryan's, something stubborn and loving sliding behind them.
"I want to do it, for you," Naim admits, thumb stilling rubbing circles on to his skin.
"You don't have to," Ryan whispers.
"I'm gonna, you cunt," Naim slaps his shoulder gently, "now turn around, need to focus."
"You saying you can't focus while looking at me?" Ryan teased, a boisterous smile overtaking his nervous features.
"Turn around, fuckwad."
"That's a new one," Ryan said quietly.
Ryan turned. He faced the mirror, watched Naim's reflection behind him, watched his boyfriend's face go pale and focused as he used a antiseptic pad to wipe the top of the vial down before popping the larger needle inside, staring intently at the needle to get the proper dose, tapping his finger on the side to blow out the air bubbles just like the nurse had shown them at least twice. Naim grabbed the other needle, the smaller one meant for actually injecting him, and turned back around to face him, looking pale, but smiling all the same.
"Pull up your shorts," Naim said, his voice rougher than usual. "Thigh. The meaty part. Don't flex or I'll hit muscle and it'll hurt worse."
Ryan couldn't help the grin that came over his face at hearing his boyfriend act like his little nurse. Words a mimicry of the doctors and nurses instructions, of the instructional packet they read through last night over and over until Ryan's eyes began to flutter shut.
Ryan pulled his boxers up, exposing his left thigh, the muscle there toned from the last two years of intensely working out whenever he got the chance, to look more like the man he wanted the world to see, freckled and pale and suddenly vulnerable. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his jaw tight.
"You're shaking," Naim observed, his voice softening.
"So are you," Ryan said, watching Naim's reflection, watching his hand tremble as he approached with the needle.
"Shut up, cunt," Naim breathed, but there was no bite in it, just love. He came closer to where Ryan was sitting on the closed toilet seat lid. He ripped open a new antiseptic wipe and cleaned up the area, waiting a few moments for it to dry with baited breath.
"I wish you could hold my hand," Ryan whispers, suddenly vulnerable.
"I need both unless you want me to someone kill you with this."
"I think I trust you not to," Ryan teased.
"I don't," And for good measure, Naim cleaned the area again, double checked the dose and made sure the needle attachment was secure.
He positioned the needle against Ryan's thigh, the skin dimpling, and paused. "Count of three?"
"One," Ryan said, and Naim plunged the needle in, smooth and fast, because waiting would have killed them both.
Ryan hissed, his whole body tensing, the pinch sharp and sudden and then—nothing, just the pressure of the plunger, he knew, logically, that he couldn't feel the small amount of testosterone entering his body, but a part of felt like he could, the knowledge that this was happening, finally, after two years of waiting.
"Sorry," Naim whispered, he lifted his hand that was pinching his skin away, coming up to rest on Ryan's hip, steadying him, grounding him. "Sorry, sorry, I'm almost done, just—"
"You're doing good," Ryan managed, his voice strained, his eyes locked on Naim's face, who couldn't seem to take his eyes away from the needle in Ryan's thigh. "You're doing so good, baby. Look at you. Bravest fucking person I know."
Naim's laugh was wet, broken, his hand still shaking as he withdrew the needle and pressed a cotton ball to the injection site. He grabbed a bandaid from the counter, decorated stupidly with SpongeBob graphics, and pressed it to the small injection site. "Bravest person you know is about to vomit in our sink."
"Don't you dare," Ryan said, pulling Naim into his lap, Naim's thighs bracketing his, only held up by Ryan's arms around his waist. He held Naim tight, feeling his boyfriend's rapid heartbeat against his own chest, feeling the tremor that ran through Naim's whole body now that it was over. "You did it. Fuck, Naim, I love you so much I can't breathe."
"You're crushing me, you giant dick," Naim mumbled against Ryan's neck, but he didn't pull away. His arms came up, wrapping around Ryan's neck, his fingers digging into the nap of his neck, twisting themselves up in his too long curls. "I love you too. Even though you're a coward who can't handle a little needle."
"Little needle," Ryan scoffed, his voice thick with emotion he wasn't trying to hide anymore. "That thing looked like it could harpoon a whale."
Naim laughed, and it was like always, the greatest sound Ryan had ever heard. Naim's voice, his laughter, it was his favorite thing, his greatest gift to be able to hear him every day, to make him laugh.
They sat there for a long moment, breathing each other in, the bathroom small and warm and smelling of cheap coffee packets that they stole from Naim's job and the antiseptic wipes Naim dropped on the floor. Ryan's thigh throbbed dully, barely even a pain, just a reminder.
"Your turn," Ryan said finally, pulling back, his hands sliding down Naim's arms to his wrists, his thumbs brushing the veins there. "Gel time. You want me to do you?"
Naim's smile was small, tired, satisfied. "Only if you promise not to make it weird."
"Weird?" He asks incredulously, tilting his head up to look at Naim.
"Don't start rubbing me all weird."
"Oh my God," Ryan deadpanned. "You think I'm a pervert!"
"You are a pervert!" Naim squawked.
"And what's so wrong with that, huh?"
"We cannot have sex every time I do my gel. It's everyday, y'know."
"So nothing would change, yeah?"
Naim laughed, a real sound, slapping Ryan's shoulders gently as the boy grinned, laughing at him. Ryan leaned up to pepper his face with kisses, trailing down his jaw until Naim forced them apart.
Naim led Ryan to the bedroom, where his gel sat on the dresser in its pump bottle, clinical and ordinary and unused. They had decided to start on the same day, another anniversary for them to share. He sat on the edge of their mattress, secondhand, from some guy on a shady website, springs that squeaked, sheets that didn't match from a charity shop, and pulled his t-shirt over his head, exposing his torso.
Normally when Naim takes his shirt off in front of Naim there's a lot more worshiping his chest like it's a holy place, but Ryan doesn't even acknowledge it, just like Naim had wanted.
Ryan sat behind him, his legs stretched out with Naim in between them, just a few inches away from him. He pumped the gel into his palm, the clear liquid cool and slightly sticky, and began with Naim's shoulders, spreading it in slow, deliberate circles.
"You're too gentle," Naim complained, his head falling forward, exposing the nape of his neck where his hair was cut shortest. "I'm not going to break, you cunt."
"You're going to shut up and let me take care of you," Ryan murmured, his lips brushing Naim's ear, his hands moving lower, across Naim's shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine, the slight softness of his lower back. "You did my shot for me. Let me do this. Let me be gentle, baby."
Naim shivered, his breath hitching as Ryan's thumbs found a knot of tension between his shoulder blades and worked it slow, patient, unhurried. The gel spread thin and warm across Naim's skin, absorbing as Ryan massaged, the ritual intimate and tender and somehow more naked than anything they'd done in the dark. Naim could get used to this, even if it didn't lead to sex, even if his resolve was breaking little by little the more Ryan's hands ran over him.
"Your hands are huge," Naim whispered, his eyes closed, his body gradually loosening under Ryan's touch.
"Just now realizing that?" Ryan asked, and Naim could practically hear the grin on his face, "I think there were many, many more past experiences we've shared where you would've known that."
"You're such a dick."
"Your dick."
"Gross. Don't say that."
Ryan laughed, leaning his head against the knot of Naim's spine, his laughter a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into Naim's back. He moved to Naim's arms, spreading gel from shoulder to wrist, his fingers tracing the blue veins, the delicate bones, the strength that belied Naim's small frame. He took his time, slow, methodical, worshiping Naim's body with his hands, tracing all the beautiful details about him.
"Ryan," Naim breathed, his voice barely audible, his head falling back to rest against Ryan's shoulder. "Thank you— thank you, Ry."
"Anytime."
"Tomorrow morning?"
"For the rest of eternity, baby," Ryan joked, and Naim rolled his eyes.
They stayed like that until the gel dried, until Naim's skin was tacky and warm and smelled of alcohol and the faint scent of coffee that couldn't be covered. Ryan dressed him in a clean t-shirt, his fingers gentle where they pulled the fabric over Naim's head, his hands lingering on Naim's waist before letting go.
"Joint?" Naim asked, his voice sleepy, satisfied, his light brown eyes soft in the morning light.
"Joint," Ryan agreed.
They went to the porch, their small balcony that overlooked the alley where the bins lived and the neighbor's cat prowled. The morning had warmed into something that felt like spring, the air carrying the smell of of the crappy Chinese joint underneath them, the left our garbage was stretching up the alley but Ryan didn't care.
Ryan lit the joint, took a drag, and passed it to Naim. They sat on the secondhand deck chairs they'd found on the curb, their knees touching, their shoulders brushing, the smoke rising between them. It was comforting, basking in the sun with him like this, it reminded him a little bit of all the good parts of Bandee, and all those good moments had Naim there.
"Oh if our mothers could see us now," Ryan chuckled, inhaling the smoke before blowing it towards Naim's face.
"I think mine would have a heart attack," Naim chuckled, grabbing the joint from him.
Ryan looked at him—at his mousy brown hair catching the light, his too-short bangs falling across his forehead, his father's ring catching the sun where it lay against his chest. He looked at the small apartment behind them, the life they'd built from nothing, from running, from refusing to be what anyone else wanted them to be.
They had been here three months after jumping from motel to motel, from group home that wouldn't let them stay together to group home that had all the boys shoved in one room like sardines.
They sat there as the morning turned to afternoon, the joint burning down to a roach, the city moving around them, their new life waiting patient and unwritten. Ryan had dreamed of days like these since he was sixteen, since he had met Naim, because Naim had ignited something within him, something that had told him that he wasn't alone, that he didn't have to be, that there were people like him, people that would love him for all the small fucked up parts of him.
Ryan squeezed Naim's hand. Naim squeezed back.
It was all he needed for now, the promise that Naim was right by his side, for all his shots, for every day that comes after, for next week when they'll do it again, and the week after that, and the week after that, for the rest of their lives.