Seen

The gallery smelled like expensive wine and cheaper beer, a combination Eli had come to associate with queer art spaces in Portland. He stood before a mixed-media piece—photographs of top surgery scars transformed into constellations with gold leaf—and felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. Recognition, maybe. Or hope.

"It's called 'Star Maps,'" a voice said beside him. Deep, warm, with the kind of resonance that made Eli's skin prickle with awareness.

He turned. The man was tall, maybe six-two, with dark brown skin, close-cropped hair, and eyes that seemed to actually see him. Not through him, not at some imagined version of him—but him. Eli, as he was, standing in a thrift-store button-down that finally fit his broader chest, three months on T making his voice crack at the worst moments.

"The artist is trans," the man continued, gesturing at the piece. "He said he wanted to reclaim the narrative of surgical scars. Make them beautiful instead of medical."

"They already were beautiful," Eli said, then immediately felt his face heat. "I mean—"

"No, you're right." The man smiled, and Eli's stomach did something complicated. "I'm Marcus, by the way. He/him."

"Eli. He/him too." The words still felt new in his mouth, precious. "Is the artist here tonight?"

"Bathroom run. I'm his husband, so I'm playing gallery assistant." Marcus's hand went to his chest, and Eli caught the gesture—familiar, grounding. "You're trans too."

It wasn't a question, but Eli nodded anyway. In most spaces, he'd brace for the follow-up questions, the invasive curiosity masked as allyship. But Marcus just smiled wider.

"Your energy," Marcus said simply. "And you touched your chest the same way I do. Checking if the binder shifted."

"Shit, is it that obvious?" Eli resisted the urge to adjust it again.

"Only to people who know." Marcus moved closer, and Eli caught his scent—cedar and something bright, citrus maybe. "How long have you been out?"

"Six months. On T for three." Eli's voice cracked on the last word, perfectly timed to prove his point. "Still getting used to... everything."

"It gets easier," Marcus said, and there was something in his voice—not pity, but kinship. Understanding. "And for what it's worth, you look exactly like you're supposed to."

Eli's breath caught. He'd heard plenty of affirmations from well-meaning friends, but this was different. Marcus wasn't trying to make him feel better. He was just stating a fact, the way you'd comment on the weather.

"Thank you," Eli managed. "That's... I needed to hear that."

"I rememb...