Mercy from the God of Love

The apartment door barely survived the way Craig leaned against it on the way in.

The bar had been good. Better than good. Loud and distracting and energetic. The band had covered old rock songs badly enough to be charming. Strangers had laughed with them. Drinks had appeared in his hand without him paying for them. At some point he'd stopped thinking about his feet.

That part felt miraculous.

Pain had been there all day, sharp, needling, insistent, but somewhere between the third drink and Frank shouting the lyrics to Don't Stop Believin' off-key, it had dissolved into background noise. He'd even danced. In stilettos. Which was, in hindsight, deeply irresponsible and quite hazardous.

By the time he got home, he was very drunk.

"Goodnight!" he called down the hallway, voice bouncing slightly off the walls.

Frank, also swaying in his own personal gravity field, pointed vaguely in Craig's direction. "Night, superstar," he slurred, disappearing into his room.

The door shut behind Craig and he burst out laughing, trying to remember the exact wording of the joke Frank had told near the end of the night. Something about loyalty cards. Or punch cards. Or... no, it was funnier than that. It had been hilarious. The kind of thing that, if remembered in the morning, would absolutely become an inside joke. If he wasn't too drunk to remember it.

The room tilted gently. That seemed fine. Manageable.

Instead of walking to the bed like a normal person, he slid down the back of the door until he was sitting on the floor, back pressed against cool wood. The heels had to come off. Immediately. This was no longer optional.

The straps blurred under his fingers. Buckle. No... other direction. Wait. Why were there so many tiny holes? He squinted at them like they were giving him the stink-eye.

Finally, blessedly, the first shoe came free.

The second followed after a minute of fumbling, and Craig exhaled like a man released from captivity. Both shoes were tossed across the room with little care.

"Oh, thank God," he muttered, flexing his toes.

His thumbs dug into the soles of his feet. The relief was almost spiritual. Ankles next. Slow circles. Another long, shaky sigh. Calves after that, pressing, kneading, dragging tension downward like he could physically push the ache out through his heels.

It felt incredible. More than incredible. Dizzying.

Sleep pressed in from behind his eyes. The room spun lazily, a ship stuck in an eddy. Bed. He should go to bed. It would soon be Saturday in the morning. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just darkness and quiet and...

The shrine.

Right.

His gaze lifted toward the dresser. Fruit in a bowl. Roses slightly drooping. Candle standing straight up in its little dish like it knew exactly what it was for.

A drunken laugh escaped him. Of course. Drunk enough to light erect candles for Greek gods. That felt stable.

Instead of crawling to the mattress, he crawled toward the dresser. The hardwood felt cool under his palms. Pulling himself upright to his knees took more effort than it should have. The lighter slipped in his hand.

Flick.

Nothing.

Flick.

Still nothing.

Flick...

A spark caught. Flame flared. He yelped when it licked his thumb.

"Ow... fuck."

Another try. This time the wick caught properly, a small golden bloom trembling into life. Craig lifted the candle slightly, squinting at it like it might contain answers. What did he actually know about Eros? Love god. Archery enthusiast. Apparently really invested in Craig's wardrobe.

"I need you," he murmured, words blurring together. "Please let me see you."

The candle flame steadied. That was good enough. A small plate sat beneath it; fire safety was important, even when drunk and summoning deities. He left it burning and crawled back to bed.

The room wouldn't stop spinning now. He didn't bother undressing. Didn't turn off the lights. Just collapsed sideways into the mattress and let the darkness take him.

---

Bare feet met cool white marble.

Craig blinked.

The air was warm, thick with jasmine and cedar, the hairs on his arms dancing as if there was live electricity all around him. Above him, the sky wasn't sky at all but a swirling expanse of rose-gold and molten amber, clouds folding into one another like silk in water.

"Oh," he breathed.

It had worked. He'd done it.

The marble felt steady beneath him, but the horizon refused to behave. It tilted slightly. Oh no.

He was still drunk.

"You rang?"

The voice sang more than spoke.

Craig turned. There he was. A metre away. Close enough to touch. Beautiful wasn't enough. Attractive wasn't even close. The figure before him seemed sculpted from light and heat and temptation. Every line deliberate. Every movement languid. Hypnotic.

Eros.

Arousal flared instantly, embarrassingly. Like his body had skipped several steps in the emotional process.

"Oh," Craig repeated, because apparently vocabulary had abandoned him.

Eros smiled faintly. Amused. Knowing.

"You wanted to see me."

"I... yes. Yes." Craig tried to stand straighter. Failed slightly. "Why are you making me dress like this?"

A slow tilt of the god's head. "Like what?"

"You know. Like..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "This! These aren't men's clothes. You're making me dress like a girl!"

Eros' lips curved. "I think you look fetching."

"No, I'm... This is not fetching. This is humiliating."

A delicate brow lifted. "Humiliating? Have those around you been making merry war with your garments? Have you been made a mockery?"

Craig frowned. Thinking felt like trying to run underwater. "I mean... no, not really. Everyone's been kind of cool about it, but..."

"Then let fears of humiliation take no space in your heart. Leave room for love."

"That's another thing. I don't know why you're dressing me up like this, but if I need to become a crossdresser, I'm really not interested. I'm perfectly happy how I am... er... was. I don't need a soulmate. I'm fine. You can stop. You can just... undo it."

The smile faded slightly, not cruel, but patient.

"It is too late to turn back," Eros said softly. "And you are not as happy as you claim."

"I am," he said petulantly.

"You are buried. Distracted," Eros corrected. "There is a difference."

Something about the way he said it made Craig's chest tighten.

"It would consume you," the god continued, voice gentler now. "Left alone."

Craig swallowed. The marble didn't feel as steady anymore. It seemed to undulate under his feet. But Eros' words resonated in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Exposed.

"Fine," he said, ****. "Fine. Keep the soulmate thing. Whatever. Just... I don't know... I can't keep living like this. Can you take the heels away? Please. They hurt. It feels like a curse."

Shock flickered across Eros' face.

"A curse?" he echoed, genuinely startled. "You call my gift a curse?"

"They're ****," Craig insisted, wobbling slightly. "I can't walk. I can't stand. I'm in pain all the time. Can't you give me a break?"

Silence lingered.

Then something shifted in Eros' expression. Not mockery. Not superiority.

Pity.

"It seems that my zeal has caused you discomfort. Perhaps another intervention is appropriate," he observed.

Eros stepped closer. Warmth radiated from him. Fingers, light, deliberate, pressed against Craig's chest.

"I can show mercy," he said.

The touch sent a shock through Craig's body. Immediate. Intense. Heat pooled low in his stomach, spreading outward in a way that stole his breath.

"I release you from their pain."

Craig's knees nearly buckled.

That hand withdrew.

"And I will come to you again," Eros said, voice softer now. "In a few turnings of your night. I believe you will require me again."

A promise. Or a warning.

He turned away. The sway of his hips was unhurried, deliberate. Hypnotic. Craig watched, transfixed, dizzy and flushed and very aware of himself, very aware of his body's reaction to seeing the god.

Just before disappearing into the rose-gold haze, Eros glanced over his shoulder and blew him a kiss.

It struck Craig like a physical blow, causing him to reel backward, the breath knocked from his lungs. He was stumbling, falling...

---

He jerked awake. Dark room. Heart racing. Phone screen glowed when he reached for it.

3:30 a.m.

Sober. Completely.

"...Thanks for that," he muttered to the ceiling.

An urgent pressure in his bladder cut through everything else. Blankets were thrown aside.

The clothes he'd fallen asleep in were gone. In their place: a red lace teddie. Straps crisscrossing. Fabric barely there. Not the first time this week he'd woken up in lingerie.

Wouldn't be the last.

Doesn't matter. Bathroom. Feet swung over the edge of the bed.

Flat on the floor...

White-hot pain shot up both legs.

"OW!"

He collapsed backward onto the mattress, clutching at the sheets. The cramp was instant, violent, wrong.

When he looked down, the pain had faded. But his feet hadn't relaxed. Toes pointed. Arches impossibly high.

"No," he whispered.

Carefully, experimentally, he lowered them again, this time balancing on the balls of his feet.

No pain. Perfect stability.

Heels lowered flat...

Agony. Immediate.

"Damn it."

His gaze shifted to the floor beside the nightstand. Red marabou heels. Feathers soft over the toes.

Waiting.

He reached for them slowly, like they might disappear. Slid his feet inside. Stood.

No pain. None.

The exhaustion from the day: gone. Ankles steady. Calves strong. Balance flawless.

He took a step.

Another.

A small jump.

Perfect.

A tentative spin.

Even better.

It felt... natural. Effortless. Like his physiology had been recalibrated.

"Damnit," he breathed.

He could probably do gymnastics in these things.

Heels clicking lightly against the floor, Craig made his way toward the bathroom. Supernatural intervention or not, some things remained constant.

Nature was calling.