The Favour

By the time Frank wandered out of his room, Craig had already been awake for hours. Morning light had shifted across the apartment since he'd first risen, the shadows cast moving across the floor like an immersive sundial. The air carried the faint smell of toast and coffee from earlier. Breakfast dishes had been rinsed and stacked neatly in the dishwasher. A video game hummed quietly on the television, its soundtrack pulsing with distant explosions and electronic percussion.

Craig sat on the couch with the controller in his hands, eyes fixed on the screen.

Lunch was already starting to sound like a good idea.

His feet were propped on the coffee table, bare and pointed, the elegant arch of them impossible to ignore. The strappy heels he'd been wearing earlier sat discarded beside the couch, their thin straps tangled loosely together. There was no point trying to **** his feet flat. He knew exactly what would happen if he did, and the memory of that cramping pain was enough to keep him from experimenting again.

So he let them rest the way they wanted to rest: extended, graceful, permanently poised as if waiting for another pair of heels.

Fabric shifted around his legs when he leaned slightly forward to focus on the game. The long white skirt pooled around his thighs, slit sliding open just enough to expose one leg to the sunlight. Above it, the red halter top hugged his torso snugly, the fabric warm where the morning light touched it.

Women's clothes.

His clothes.

A door creaked down the hall.

Frank shuffled into view wearing grey track pants and a faded t-shirt, hair flattened in strange directions and eyes half closed. The man looked like he'd been dragged out of bed by a tow truck.

"Mornin'," Frank croaked.

The greeting barely made it into the room before he turned immediately and disappeared back into the hallway.

A moment later, the bathroom door shut.

Craig tried to focus on the game. The soundtrack swelled with tension as enemies swarmed the digital battlefield. Gunfire cracked through the speakers.

Then came the unmistakable sound of Frank peeing like a racehorse.

Craig winced slightly and leaned forward, concentrating harder on the screen. Crosshair. Breathe. Click.

Headshot.

The bathroom door opened again. Footsteps padded back toward the living room. Frank stopped in the doorway.

Silence.

Craig didn't look away from the screen.

"You look nice," Frank said finally, voice still rough with sleep. "Got, like, a date or something? Who is she and does she have a hot sister?"

A glance downward told Craig exactly what Frank was seeing. Long white skirt. Red halter top.

He grimaced.

"Just thought I'd throw these on," he said casually, not wanting to draw further attention to his outfit. "Didn't put much thought into it. No date."

"Damn," Frank muttered, already drifting toward the kitchen.

Cabinet doors opened. A glass clinked. Water ran.

"Not that I'd be up for a date tonight anyway," Frank added loudly. "I feel terrible."

"Tylenol's on top of the fridge," Craig called back without turning around.

Another enemy appeared on the screen.

Two quick shots.

Two more headshots.

Behind him, Frank shuffled around the kitchen like a wounded animal. Water gulped. Coffee machine clicked. A cupboard slammed a little harder than necessary.

For a while Craig managed to ignore him.

Game sounds filled the room. Distant explosions. Electronic music. The quiet clatter of dishes. Eventually Frank wandered back into the living room holding a mug of coffee like it was life support. The couch dipped under his weight.

"Seriously, though," Frank said after a moment, squinting at Craig. "You look great."

Craig didn't respond.

"Shouldn't you be hungover like me?" Frank continued. "You were just as drunk as I was. What's your secret?"

"No secret," Craig said, squeezing the trigger twice.

Two enemies dropped instantly.

"Just healthy living, I guess."

The lie came easily. Because the truth was impossible. An ancient Greek god of love had decided to turn Craig's life into a supernatural crossdressing makeover project. Hangover removal might have been a bonus feature. Or maybe a consolation prize.

Hard to say.

"Damn," Frank muttered, watching the game. "Well, I guess I'll just have to spend a few days in your shoes and maybe I'll catch whatever it is you've got."

Craig said nothing. His character sprinted across the digital battlefield. Frank leaned back into the couch cushions and groaned dramatically.

"I can't lie, though," he said. "I feel terrible. I think I'm going to go back to bed and sleep this off."

Craig nodded absently.

"Can you do me a favour, though?"

That made him pause the game.

"Sure."

Frank rubbed his eyes with both hands.

"So... since you're doing so much better than me today... could you sub in for me?"

Craig blinked.

"Sub in?"

"Yeah. Basketball game this afternoon." Frank gestured vaguely. "We don't have a spare. If I miss today, we default. And since we already defaulted twice this season, we'll be out of the league. The guys will be pissed."

Basketball.

Craig looked down slowly at his feet. Then at the skirt. Then at the halter top.

"I’m not sure," he said carefully. "I'm not that great at basketball."

"That's no problem." Frank waved a dismissive hand. "The other guys are great. We're playing a low-ranking team anyway. Just stand on the court so we're legal. The team will take care of the game."

"I don't have to do anything?"

"Nope."

Frank sipped his coffee.

"It'd be a huge favour for me. Seriously. It'll save my butt."

Craig hesitated. Just standing there didn't sound too difficult.

"I mean... if I just have to stand there..."

"Thanks so much!" Frank said immediately.

He was already standing up again.

"I owe you big time."

Halfway down the hallway he turned and called back, "Two o'clock! The gym on Thirty-Fourth!"

The bedroom door shut behind him. Silence returned to the apartment. Craig stared at the paused game for a long moment. Then he unpaused it and immediately landed another headshot.

Still, a frown crept slowly across his face. Helping Frank felt like the right thing to do. But the logistics of it...

Craig glanced down again at the skirt.

At his feet.

At the heels on the floor beside the couch.

How exactly was he supposed to play basketball like this?