"You know why I hate this place so much?" Steve asked, licking his ice cream. Rod and Steve were having dinner in the cafeteria. Steve was eating an ice cream cone, and Rod's thoughts wandered, imagining something far too sexy about the way Steve licked the ice cream.
"...too many people! And all of them are men—men who haven't touched a woman in ages. You know what it---" Steve paused mid-sentence when he noticed Rod's gaze locked on his lips rather than his words. A mischievous glint sparkled in Steve's eyes. Deciding to tease, he made an exaggerated swallowing gesture with the cone, then slowly licked the tip of the ice cream.
Rod's face flushed, and he chuckled nervously. "Don't do that."
"What? How am I supposed to eat ice cream, then?" Steve replied, feigning innocence with a playful smirk.
Rod left the table and walked to the counter. It would take a while, and Steve waited by licking his ice cream. As he enjoyed it while reading a book, he noticed someone staring from the distance. Steve raised his eyes and found a bald man with a scar above his ear watching him intently. And he wasn't the only one whose eyes were drawn to him.
Steve felt surrounded by eyes staring at him, even though in reality, they might have been busy with themselves. But surely the atmosphere—especially since he was alone right now—felt like he was being surrounded by people who were judging him.
He stopped licking the ice cream. He wasn't even in the mood for it anymore.
Then, Rod returned with an ice cream cone. "Here, here's how you eat an ice cream cone without being suggestive."
Rod bit into the ice cream cone as if eating a chicken drum. Somehow, it tickled Steve. "You're not eating it like that. Brain freeze!"
"Brain freeze? What is that?" Rod furrowed his eyebrows, pretending he had never heard of it. He then proceeded to eat the ice cream until it was all gone.
"Alright, let me try," Steve said, biting into the ice cream while maintaining eye contact with Rod. Somehow, that eye contact brought a smile to Rod's face as he admired the beautiful sparkle in Steve's eyes. Rod couldn't get enough of gazing into Steve's soft glances. They felt like cotton candy—so delicate, like a cloud. Words could never fully capture how beautiful Steve was to him.
"You're beautiful," Rod said out of the blue, his eyes dreamy.
Steve leaned in closer to Rod and whispered, "You know what else is beautiful?"
Rod didn't want to run away anymore. Not this time. He wanted to accept it—there was love to embrace, love to feel. "What?" he asked.
"You and me, together." Steve leaned in even closer, and Rod fought the urge to pull away. He didn't want to run anymore; he wanted to embrace it—the love that had been there all along, the love he had wasted so much time ignoring.
Steve's lips met his in a gentle touch, lingering for a few seconds. Unhurried. Unwavering.
And then, Rod returned the kiss.
Let people watch, let them talk, let them judge. They got no power over these feelings, and that's all that matters; the happiness in their eyes as they pull away from the linking lips.
***
As their romance blossomed, the changes in Steve became evident. First, it was the earrings—noticeable, vibrant, and unapologetically bold. They dangled from his ears like tiny declarations of freedom, shimmering in the light. Then came the subtler shifts. He stopped caring who might be watching. The carefully curated mask of masculinity he'd worn for so long began to slip away, piece by piece, until it was gone entirely.
Yet, despite these changes, there was one thing he still couldn't touch.
It was tucked away in a box, locked and hidden at the very bottom of his cabinet, buried under piles of other belongings. As though by burying it, he could bury what it meant, what it represented. And yet, he couldn't let it go. The mere thought of discarding it left a dull ache in his chest.
Rod had noticed the box before, tucked away under Steve's cabinet, its edges barely visible beneath a clutter of belongings. His curiosity had stirred, but he never asked. He respected Steve too much to pry into something he clearly wasn't ready to share. So, he brushed it off, convincing himself it wasn't his rights to explore.
But today, something changed.
Steve crouched in front of the cabinet, pulling out the box with a deliberate slowness. Revealing the faint outline of its once-shiny exterior. He stared at it, his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.
He didn't open it right away. Instead, he sat there with the box resting on his lap, as though it carried the weight of his past. He stared at it for a while, deciding whether to keep it hidden under the cabinet or finally open it, risking a journey back in time to the moment he had decided to lock it away.
Should he leave it buried, hidden from sight, or dare to open it and face the memories inside?
This time, he didn't want to run away from himself again. He wanted to embrace the side of him he had kept safe all these years, hidden out of fear that he would get hurt if he allowed it to resurface.
That was the first day Steve started applying makeup again. Rod's reaction was immediate and impossible to miss. His eyes widened as he stared at Steve, frozen for a second before bursting out, "No way—you're joking!"
The words were simple enough, but the excitement on Rod's face said everything. His expression lit up, his voice teetering on the edge of laughter, and Steve could swear he saw the glint of love sparkling in Rod's eyes.
Steve chuckled at Rod's reaction, his shoulders raised, "What? Does it look that bad?"
Rod couldn't tear his eyes away from Steve. Running his hands through his hair, he squeezed it lightly, a telltale sign of his struggle to collect his thoughts. Even without the "upgrade," Steve was already gorgeous, but now he had leveled it up!
The intensity in Rod's gaze spoke louder than words, leaving no doubt about how much he adored what he saw. Finally, he muttered, his voice laced with nervous humor, "Right now, I'm trying really hard not to say something that makes you think I'm a creep..."
"What a compliment, thanks, I'm glad I still pull it off perfectly," Steve said with a playful grin as he returned to the mirror, perfecting his makeup. His fingers moved with practiced ease, applying just the right amount of touch to accentuate his features.
"Why are you doing this? I mean, it's good, I just wonder why you started applying makeup. I thought you didn't want people to see your feminine side...?" Rod asked, carefully phrasing his question, almost as if afraid to push too far.
Steve paused, his fingers halting mid-application of mascara as he considered Rod's question. "I don't know, I feel adventurous right now," he said almost to himself, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "I mean, I do this because makeup is an art of refinement, you know? I love painting my face and enhancing my appearance."
"It sure is," Rod said, his face reflected in the mirror, filled with admiration. He decided not to interrupt Steve any longer, returning to his rifle. Sitting on his bunk, he resumed cleaning the weapon, allowing Steve to continue his artistic ritual without distraction.
As Steve's fingers brushed over his features, the makeup grew thicker, his face beginning to transform, taking him back to that time. A slight change in his expression appeared. Something was trying to rise, like a zombie awakening from the grave—it was suffocating. His hands froze, and a sudden chill seemed to fill the room.
It wasn't the makeup that stopped him, but the memories—those horrible memories from the past. He had been around Rod's age the last time he'd applied makeup like this. Back then, Cezar had summoned him to his office, his voice low and threatening as he told Steve to stop wearing makeup and jewelry, saying it would "draw creeps" to him. Steve had argued back, defending his right to express himself. But that was when Cezar first laid his hands on him.
The first time Steve had truly felt powerless and dominated.
It had been terrifying—an experience so horrifying it felt like a nightmare he kept trying to deny. As he buried the tools in a box, hidden beneath the cabinet, he thought it was forgotten, a wound healed by the passage of time. But like a ghost, it resurfaced without warning, haunting Steve and gnawing at his very spirit.
Steve's lips parted, but no words came out. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as the weight of the memories suffocated him.
It all returned to him, as if he had traveled back in time to five years ago. The slap landed so hard that his vision exploded into a cascade of yellow sparks, like fireworks bursting behind his eyes, leaving him momentarily stunned and unsteady. He could still feel the burn of those strong, unrelenting hands that slammed him onto the table, stripping away not just his clothing but his sense of safety, forcing him into a state of unwanted vulnerability.
He couldn't scream because a stinky sock was stuffed in his mouth to silence him.
"You want to be a girl?! Let me show you what it tastes like!"
Maybe it was anger, or maybe it was fear—the pencil liner fell from Steve's fingers.
"What is it?" Rod asked, his voice softening as he sensed the sudden shift in Steve's mood.
For a moment, Steve froze—his whole body still as time seemed to stretch and warp, pulling him back into the past. His eyes, once so full of life and warmth, grew distant, clouded with fear. The air in the room felt thicker, charged with the heaviness of unspoken pain.
Rod stand up from his bunk and took a step closer, his voice gentle yet concerned. "Steve?"
"No, no... this is a big mistake...!" Steve's voice trembles.
He began packing away the makeup, hurriedly placing it into the bag and trying to locking it away again—an action that felt like he was locking a part of himself in with it. But something was off. The anxiety inside him grew, and his hands trembled as he nearly destroyed the makeup packs in his haste, feeling as if he were battling against something much deeper than just his own nerves.
"Steve, calm down!" Rod's voice carried a sharp urgency as he reached out, firmly but gently grabbing Steve's trembling hands. He stopped him just in time, keeping the makeup bag from being hurled against the wall. Rod's grip was steady, his touch deliberate—he knew how much these tools meant to Steve, and he couldn't let him destroy something so precious in a moment of despair.
"This is a mistake! I should've never even thought about it!" Steve's voice cracked as tears streamed down his face, smudging the carefully applied makeup. Black streaks ran down his cheeks, tracing a painful path that mirrored the storm of emotions inside him—a chaotic mix of anger, regret, and vulnerability laid bare.
Rod pulled Steve closer, holding him tightly, as if he wanted to transfer all his strength to Steve's shaken body. Steve's fear was raw and palpable, but Rod stood firm—unwavering, like a towering tree sheltering fragile creatures from relentless storms. He would hold onto Steve's fear until it softened, until it subsided, and he wouldn't let go. Rod wasn't going to let Steve face this alone, even if he still had no understanding of what haunted Steve's mind.
If Steve could, he would tell Rod about the fear that gripped him so tightly, but the words wouldn't come. They were trapped, locked behind the walls he had built around himself for so long. For years, he had hidden from this fear, telling himself it was better to deal with it alone.
He feared that if anyone knew, they might side with his abuser, turning his suffering into a twisted narrative, or worse, fuel for idle gossip. The thought of others seeing him as weak—as prey—only deepened his resolve to keep it hidden. No one had ever stood beside him like Rod was now, wrapping his arms like blanket, shielding him with unwavering strength. So he had buried it, locking the pain away deep within himself, silently carrying the unbearable weight alone.
Unconsciously, Steve's grip on Rod's shoulders tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric as if trying to anchor himself. In that moment, his 18-year-old self, the boy who had once been sabotaged from himself and terrified, seemed to seek refuge in Rod's embrace, silently pleading for the comfort and safety that Rod was now offering.
Rod felt the warmth of Steve's tears soaking through his shirt, his shoulders wets as Steve quietly wept. His heart ached at the sound of Steve's sorrow, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he pressed his cheek gently against Steve's ear. He let Steve know that he didn't have to face this alone, that Rod would lend him whatever strength he could, even if it was nothing more than an embrace. He would hold Steve until all the fears faded away.
Rod didn't say a word. He knew that it's not words that Steve need now, but protection from his own fear. Rod was careful not to risk saying something that making Steve feel judged. Sometimes, silence held more power than any words. And right now, his arms around Steve, his quiet, steady presence, were the only things he could offer.
They held each other for two hours, the weight of silence wrapping around them, unbroken except for the quiet sounds of Steve's breathing as he began to soften. Slowly, all the tension in his body seemed to evaporate, but his hold on Rod remained, his head gently resting on Rod's neck.
"I'm sorry… you must be confused," Steve whispered, his voice still carrying the remnants of his vulnerability. His hand rests inside Rod's palm.
Rod gently shifted, his hand lightly rubbing Steve's back. "I'm not confused," he replied with quiet assurance. "You felt something, and you needed me. That's what happened."
Steve, still buried in Rod's embrace, tightened his grip, as though grounding himself in the warmth Rod provided. He closed his eyes, his breath soft against Rod's skin. "Is it okay if we stay like this until tomorrow morning? I love your smell... and I love being hugged by you."
Rod chuckled, his lips brushing the top of Steve's head as he relaxed into the warmth of the moment. "I'm okay with that," he murmured. "I love your scent too." He closed his eyes and kiss Steve's hair. The fragility of the moment, their closeness, wrapped them in a quiet, tender peace.
Steve closed his eyes and snuggled into Rod's neck. He knew some makeup on his face, mixed with tears, had stained Rod's shirt, but he didn't want to let go. He needed a hug, someone to show him that he was safe and not alone.
When Rod woke up in the morning, he found himself alone. Steve was no longer lying on his chest. As he looked around, he noticed someone standing right in front of him, in an effeminate pose, gently greeting him, "Hi, babe, good morning."
It took Rod a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing, who is this in his unit? and where is Steve? However, when Rod realized who this person is, his smile rose. "Damn… gorgeous!"
Steve was no longer shaken, no longer terrified. His makeup box lay on the table, neatly placed in front of the mirror, and Steve now looked like a completely different person. Gone was the more masculine facade he once wore, replaced by a version of himself he had always wanted to present to the world. The makeup on his face was applied just right, accentuating his features, and long earrings dangled from his earlobes, adding a touch of flair. His turtleneck, hugging his slender frame, highlighted his sexy collarbones and the graceful lines of his body, complementing his flamboyant gestures with effortless elegance.
"I must be dreaming, please don't wake me up," Rod grinned, dreamy eyes staring at Steve.
Steve chuckled softly and leaned in closer to Rod. "No, I'm not a dream," he murmured with a genuine smile before pressing a deep kiss to Rod's cheek. It was a kiss full of gratitude, a silent acknowledgment of how lucky he felt to have Rod by his side. The warmth of the moment lingered, a simple yet profound expression of affection.
Steve smiled as he saw the makeup stain on Rod's shirt. He wiped it, but it got stuck there. "I'm sorry about this, I'll clean it up later."
Rod was crazy in love right now; he couldn't take his eyes off Steve, and his brain felt drunk. "It's just a shirt."
"You're the sweetest," Steve kissed him again, and when he pulled back, he said, "I'll still clean it up later," then strolled away with a teasing touch to Rod's jawline. He stopped in front of the mirror to fix his wolfcut hairstyle.
Rod rolled off his bunk, stretching lazily. "Have you showered?" he asked, moving closer to Steve and leaning in to sniff his nape. Slowly, he slid his arms around Steve's waist—hesitant at first, the weight of his lingering self-doubt still holding him back.
Sensing the lingering doubt in Rod's touch, Steve smiled softly and reached down to take Rod's hands, securing them firmly in place. "There," he murmured, his voice low and reassuring.
"No need to hold back, Cutie. And yeah, just finished shower before finally painting my face," Steve leaned back slightly, resting against Rod, who took the opportunity to plant a soft kiss on his nape.
"That's good you showered first," Rod rubbing the tip of his nose on Steve's skin. "Maybe it's been too long since you last applied makeup—you forgot the order."
Steve giggled, running his fingers gently through Rod's hair. "No I'm not....you sleep like a baby, I can't wake you up," he replied softly.
"You should've wake me up, I hate doing things without you," Rod protest. His voice low and sincere.
Steve turned his body around and placed his arms around Rod, pulling him close. "Next time," he promised softly and seal it with a kiss.