Chapter 2: The Morning After
Sunlight sliced through the blinds, painting hot stripes across Teal’s closed eyelids. He woke with a jolt, a disoriented gasp catching in his throat. The couch. He was on the couch, wrapped in a scratchy blanket that smelled like dust and old chips. The room was silent except for the low rumble of the dorm’s ancient heating vent.
Then he heard it: whistling. A tuneless, upbeat sound coming from behind the closed bathroom door. The shower wasn’t running. It was just Zane, whistling while he brushed his teeth or shaved, the picture of a guy with a perfectly clear conscience.
Teal’s stomach clenched. The memory returned not as a flood, but as a slow, cold seep. The grinding pressure. The shudder. The salt. He sat up slowly, every muscle stiff. The blanket fell away, and he looked down at himself. He was still in the clean shorts he’d put on after… after. The ones from his drawer. They felt like a disguise.
The bathroom door swung open. Steam and the sharp, clean scent of Zane’s soap rolled out. Zane emerged with a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp, his jaw smooth. He looked vibrant, refreshed. His eyes found Teal on the couch and crinkled at the corners.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he said, his voice warm and easy. He padded to his dresser, pulled out a pair of his own gray sweat-shorts—looser, softer than Teal’s—and tossed them in a lazy arc. They landed on Teal’s lap. “Here. Wear these today. They’ll look cute on you. More relaxed.”
Teal stared at the fabric pooled in his lap. They smelled like Zane’s laundry detergent, a crisp, masculine scent that was suddenly everywhere.
“Got that psych quiz at eleven, right?” Zane continued, pulling on his own jeans, not looking at Teal. “Better get moving. You wanna look pretty for class.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like commenting on the weather.
The command was a rope, thrown across the chasm of the night. Teal’s fingers, moving on autopilot, closed around the shorts. His obedience was a deep, worn groove. He stood, his legs wobbly, and began to change right there, turning his back slightly. He peeled off his own shorts, feeling the morning air on his skin. He stepped into Zane’s. The fabric was indeed softer, but they swam on him, the waistband loose. He had to roll it over twice to make them stay up. They hung low on his hips, exposing the delicate curve of his pelvic bone.
“See? Adorable,” Zane said, now shirtless, watching him. His gaze was a physical weight, cataloguing the fit. Then his expression shifted, a faint line appearing between his brows. “You okay? You’re shaking.”
Teal looked down at his own hands. They were trembling, a fine, constant vibration. He hadn’t even noticed. He balled them into fists, hiding them against his thighs.
Zane crossed the room in two strides. He didn’t ask again. He just pulled Teal into him, one strong arm banding around his back, the other hand cradling the back of his head, pressing his face into the smooth, damp skin of his shoulder. Teal stiffened for a second, every nerve screaming. The smell of clean skin and cologne was suffocating.
“Hey,” Zane whispered, his lips moving against Teal’s hair. His voice dropped, losing its morning cheer, becoming that intimate, confidential murmur. “Listen to me. About last night. You’re overthinking it.”
Teal tried to form a word, but his throat was sealed shut.
“It was nothing,” Zane breathed, his hand rubbing slow circles on Teal’s back. “Just a release. You know? Like… a deep tissue massage. Or popping a pimple. It’s just pressure, and then it’s gone. It doesn’t mean anything.” His grip tightened, possessive. “Your body’s just… learning. It’s rewiring. The E is making all these new connections. Sometimes it needs an outlet. What you felt, what happened… that’s just a signal. It’s your new system responding. Telling you it’s working.”
The explanation was so calm, so logical. It coated the raw, shameful memory in a glaze of clinical reason. A release. A signal. Biology.
Teal felt his muscles begin to unlock, driven by a desperate need for the story to be true. He wanted to bury the horrifying, sticky reality and plant this clean, simple reason in its place. He nodded, a small movement against Zane’s shoulder.
“There you go,” Zane soothed. He pulled back just enough to look down into Teal’s face. He cupped his cheek, his thumb stroking just under Teal’s eye. “You’re so sensitive now. It’s part of the package. The softness outside, the softness inside. It’s beautiful. But you can’t freak out over every little physiological glitch. Okay? Trust me. I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you. The words were an anchor. They always had been.
“Okay,” Teal whispered, the word scraping out. He managed a weak, wobbly smile.
“Good boy.” Zane kissed his forehead, a firm, dry press of lips. “Now go brush your teeth. Your breath is kinda rank.”
The normalcy of the insult, so casual and familiar, was the final stitch closing the wound. Teal slipped out of his grasp and shuffled to the bathroom. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror. He squeezed toothpaste onto his brush and scrubbed. He scrubbed hard, trying to scour the phantom salt from his tongue. The mint burned, clean and empty.
When he came out, Zane was lacing up his shoes, backpack slung over one shoulder. “I’ve got that lab across campus. I’ll see you after your quiz. We’ll get lunch.” He paused at the door. “And Teal?”
Teal looked up.
“Wear those shorts tomorrow, too. They suit you better than your old ones.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Teal alone in the silent, sunlit room.
The quiet was different now. It wasn’t peaceful; it was observant. The dust motes dancing in the sunbeams felt like watching eyes. Teal stood there, in the middle of the room, wearing Zane’s clothes that hung off his frame. He felt adrift.
His gaze drifted to his own bed, the sheets still tangled from two nights ago. He walked over and slowly, carefully, peeled back the rumpled comforter. There, on the bottom sheet, near the center, was a faint, pale stain. It had dried into a subtle, stiff patch. Smaller than he’d imagined. Almost insignificant.
He stared at it. A release. Like a massage.
He let the comforter fall back, covering the evidence. He turned and caught his reflection in the dark screen of the turned-off television. A slender, blurred figure in oversized shorts. His lavender hair was a mess. He looked young. And very, very soft.
He walked to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. He looked at himself, really looked. The shorts did look cute in a borrowed, slouchy way. They emphasized his slender legs, the new, subtle roundness of his hips they were slung low on. He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder at the reflection of his own ass, curving against the soft gray fabric.
A strange, hollow feeling bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t shame anymore, either. It was a kind of resignation, heavy and cold. This was the suit of clothes for the person he was becoming. Chosen for him. Worn at his command.
He ran his hands down his sides, over the foreign fabric. He thought of Zane’s hands doing the same last night, his breath hot, his voice shredded.
Mine.
Teal’s fingers traced the rolled waistband. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked his thumbs and pushed the shorts down, just an inch, exposing the sharp line of his hip bones, the gentle dip of his lower abdomen. He held them there, looking at the exposed skin in the mirror. A defiance so quiet it was almost inaudible, a secret performed for an audience of one.
He pulled the shorts back up.
He wouldn’t wear them tomorrow. He’d wash them tonight and fold them neatly, put them on the top shelf of his closet, out of sight. A trophy of a battle he didn’t know how to fight. A reminder of the salt, and the story, and the space between them where the truth waited, patient and unseen.
He grabbed his own backpack, his movements now calm, precise. The trembling had stopped. He had a psych quiz at eleven. He needed to look pretty for class.
He needed to look pretty for class. He settled on a soft, cream-colored sweater that fell off one shoulder and the gray sweat-shorts Zane had given him, rolling the waist one more time so they wouldn’t slip. The morning air was crisp, biting at his exposed collarbone as he walked across the quad, but the sun felt good on his skin.
“Hey, Teal! Looking cozy.”
A girl from his sociology study group, Mara, fell into step beside him, her smile easy. “That sweater is so cute on you. The color really makes your hair pop.”
“Oh, thanks,” Teal said, a faint blush warming his cheeks. He tucked a strand of lavender hair behind his ear. “Just, you know, throwing something on.”
“Well, it’s a vibe,” she laughed, adjusting her own backpack. “You’re giving off major softboy energy today. It’s adorable.” She gave his arm a friendly squeeze before veering off toward the library. “See you in section!”
The interaction left a pleasant buzz under his skin. It was nice. He got a large coffee from the student union, and the bored guy at the register gave him a longer look, a slow once-over before handing him the cup with a slight, appreciative smile. “Have a good one,” the guy said, his voice a touch warmer than necessary.
“You too,” Teal mumbled, fumbling with his card. His heart did a little, inexplicable skip.
In Psych 101, he slid into a seat near the middle. The guy next to him, Ben, who usually just nodded, leaned over as Professor Hendricks passed out the quizzes. “Did you do the reading on synaptic pruning? I totally blanked. Your notes are probably way better than mine.” Ben’s eyes flickered from Teal’s quiz paper to his face, lingering. “You always look so put together, man.”
“Um, I can share after,” Teal whispered back, focusing very hard on his own name printed at the top of the paper. The compliment settled in his stomach, warm like the coffee. He felt hyper-aware of the soft fabric of the sweater against his neck, of the way the shorts felt against his thighs when he shifted in the hard plastic chair.
He tried to concentrate on the multiple-choice questions—Which part of the limbic system is most associated with fear response?—but his mind kept drifting. Not to the amygdala. To the weight of Zane pinning him to the sink, the clinical coldness of the countertop against his back. The memory should have felt violent. Instead, a shiver that wasn’t entirely unpleasant traced his spine. He remembered the sheer, encompassing heat of Zane’s body wrapped around him from behind, the way his own breath had hitched not just in panic, but in something else, a shocking, deep-seated thrill at the sheer force of it.
Zane was touching me. Holding me. The thought intruded, clear and bright amidst the academic jargon. It felt… good. Being that close. Being held that tightly. He could almost feel the ghost of Zane’s fingers digging into the soft flesh of his hip, claiming, possessing. A warm, heavy sensation pooled low in his belly, entirely separate from anxiety. He crossed his legs under the desk.
The quiz ended. He handed it in, his mind elsewhere. The professor gave him a kind, grandmotherly smile as she took his paper. “Always a pleasure, Teal. You have such a gentle presence in here.”
He floated out of the lecture hall on a cloud of these quiet, affirming kindnesses. The world seemed to be reflecting back the image Zane had crafted for him: cute, soft, harmless, adorable. A chick. He passed a group of girls by the water fountain, and one of them stage-whispered, “I want to steal his whole outfit.” They all giggled, and Teal smiled shyly, hurrying past.
He needed to pee. The campus bathroom was stark, tiled in beige, smelling sharply of industrial cleaner and stale air. He pushed into a stall, locked the door, and the sudden silence was a bell jar. The external noise of his day fell away.
He sat down. The chill of the porcelain seeped through the thin shorts. As he relieved himself, his own hand brushed against the inside of his thigh, high up near his hip. The skin there was impossibly smooth, silken. He knew it was from the estrogen, that his entire body was slowly becoming a map of new textures. But this patch felt different. Softer. He let his fingers rest there, pressing lightly.
This was where it had landed. This was the skin Zane had marked.
His breath shallowed. He didn’t pull his hand away. He thought of the salt, the shocking, intimate flavor that had burst on his tongue. At the memory, his own mouth watered slightly. He licked his lips. It had been gross, of course it had been gross. But beneath the initial shock, there had been a… richness. A pungent, biological tang that was undeniably, fundamentally Zane. A part of him, given. Taken.
A full-body flush spread from that soft patch of skin outwards, warm and prickling. His fingers trembled against his own thigh. The sensation of Zane’s hands gripping him, the low growl in his ear, the overwhelming sense of being completely controlled—it replayed not as a trauma, but as a terrifying, magnetic secret. The good feeling of being held. The good taste, secret and shameful.
He wondered, with a clarity that stole his breath, if Zane was going to do it again.
The thought wasn’t fear. It was a dark, thrilling hook in his gut, pulling him forward into a future he could no longer define. He finished, stood on shaky legs, and pulled the shorts back up. The soft spot on his thigh, now covered, seemed to pulse with a phantom heat. He flushed, unlocked the stall, and avoided his reflection in the mirror above the sinks. He didn’t need to see the confusion, the want, the dawning addiction written on his own face.
He had to find Zane for lunch.
He walked across campus, the autumn leaves crunching under his sneakers. The earlier buzz from the compliments had faded, replaced by a low, humming static in his veins. His mind kept circling back to the bathroom stall, to the phantom heat on his thigh, to the salt.
His phone felt heavy in his pocket. He pulled it out, thumb hovering over the search bar. His heart thumped once, hard, against his ribs. He typed slowly, each letter a quiet confession in the bright afternoon sun: does cum make your skin soft.
He hit enter, his breath held.
The results loaded. Forum threads, weird lifestyle blogs, a dubious-looking skincare article. He clicked one. His eyes scanned the text, quick and furtive. …contains minerals like zinc… antioxidants… spermidine can have a moisturizing effect… some cultural practices…
A weird, breathless laugh escaped him. It was true. Or it could be true. It wasn’t just a gross thing; it was a thing with a purpose. A potential benefit. The logic was crooked and shimmering, slotting perfectly into the narrative Zane had built. Everything had a purpose. Everything was for his improvement.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, his cheeks burning. He felt dizzy with the new information. He picked up his pace, the student union building looming ahead.
He found Zane at their usual table by the grimy window, hunched over his laptop, a half-eaten burger congealing on a wrapper. He looked up as Teal slid into the chair opposite him. “Took you long enough. Quiz kick your ass?”
“No, it was fine,” Teal said, his voice a little thin. He set down his bag, his movements too careful. The words he’d rehearsed in his head were jumbling together. “I, um. I was just…”
Zane raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. He closed his laptop with a definitive click. “Spit it out, Teal. You look like you’re about to implode.”
Teal took a shaky breath. He stared at a mustard stain on the table. “I was reading. About… about last night.” He forced his eyes up. Zane’s expression was neutral, interested, giving nothing away. “The… the stuff. On my skin. I googled it.”
Zane didn’t move. “Yeah?”
“It… they say it can be good for you. For your skin. Like, moisturizing.” The words sounded ludicrous spoken aloud in the bustling cafeteria. “There’s minerals and stuff. Antioxidants.”
A beat of silence passed. Then Zane’s face slowly transformed. The neutral mask dissolved into a wide, genuine grin. He leaned back in his chair, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. It wasn’t a mocking laugh; it was a laugh of pure, unadulterated delight. “No shit,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “You went and researched it. That’s my good boy. Always looking for the silver lining.”
Teal’s shoulders loosened slightly at the praise. The tension bled out, replaced by a fizzy, giddy relief. Zane wasn’t angry. He was impressed.
Zane leaned forward again, elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that cut through the cafeteria din. “See? I told you. Everything we do has a point. Everything’s part of the process. It’s not just some random act. It’s maintenance. It’s synergistic.” He waved a hand, as if the science was obvious. “Your body’s changing, it needs new kinds of fuel, new treatments. Topical applications are a thing.”
He let that hang in the air, watching Teal absorb it. His eyes were bright, focused, like a scientist observing a perfect reaction. “So,” he said, his tone casual, almost offhand. “If you think it’s helping… if you want your skin to stay that soft…” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “The supply isn’t exactly limited. You can get more anytime you want. Just gotta ask nicely.”
Teal’s mouth went dry. The offer hung between them, vast and terrifying. It reframed everything. It wasn’t something done to him. It was something he could ask for. A need he could articulate. A collaborative part of his… care.
He looked down at his own hands, at the skin on the back of his wrist which did seem softer, smoother. He thought of the spot on his thigh. He imagined it spread across his shoulders, down his collarbone, a whole body kept supple and new.
“Oh,” was all he could manage. The world tilted, its axis shifting to this new, grotesque possibility. Wanting it. Asking for it. The salt taste ghosted over his tongue again, but now it was layered with the promise of efficacy, of purpose.
Zane watched the conflict play out on Teal’s face, the hunger and the horror twining together. He smiled, slow and satisfied, and took a huge bite of his cold burger. “Think about it,” he said, chewing. “No pressure. It’s your program. I’m just the facilitator.”
He said it like he was offering an extra study session, a protein shake. Teal nodded, unable to speak. The noise of the cafeteria surged back in—the clatter of trays, the shriek of laughter from a nearby table, the mundane roar of an ordinary afternoon. It felt a million miles away. He was in a silent, intimate bubble with Zane, where the most abnormal things could be parsed into logic, where needs could be manufactured and met with a casual shrug.
Zane’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, his smile turning into something more private, more possessive. “Gotta run. Study group.” He stood, balling up his burger wrapper. He reached over and ruffled Teal’s lavender hair, his fingers lingering, combing through the soft strands. “You’re doing so good, Teal. Seriously. The progress is insane.”
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked away, leaving Teal alone at the table. Teal didn’t move. He stared at the mustard stain, his mind a whiteout of static. You can get more anytime you want.
He brought his fingers to his lips, then dragged them slowly down the line of his jaw, feeling the unbelievable smoothness of his own skin. A commodity. A resource. A reward.
His stomach growled, empty. He’d forgotten to get any food.