Dress Up

Sundays had always been lazy days for Craig. Most weeks followed the same comfortable rhythm. Sleep in a little later than usual. Lounge around the apartment in whatever old t-shirt happened to be clean. Maybe spend a few hours lost in a video game or watching whatever mediocre movie happened to be drifting through the streaming services. If the fridge was looking bare, one of them would make a grocery run. Craig and Frank took turns, always using Frank's car.

This week, the grocery run belonged to Frank. Craig had watched him leave nearly an hour earlier. Under normal circumstances, the quiet stretch of time alone would have felt peaceful. Instead, a dull knot of anticipation sat in Craig's stomach.

Dinner.

Frank's mom.

And the instruction that had been sitting like a weight on his shoulders all afternoon.

Dress up.

The words had sounded harmless when they arrived in the text message. Now they felt like a looming deadline.

Craig had done his best to ignore it. First came video games. A couple rounds of an old favourite that usually swallowed entire afternoons without effort. Today the controller had felt restless in his hands, attention drifting every few minutes.

Then television. A sitcom he'd seen a dozen times before murmured from the living room for nearly forty minutes before Craig realized he hadn't followed a single joke.

Cleaning came next.

Dishes were washed. Counters wiped. The living room vacuumed with unnecessary thoroughness.

Even his bedroom had received attention, although only after he'd closed his closet door. It had felt necessary at the time. The sight of it sitting there, filled to the brim with his new feminine clothing, looming over him like a wave about to crash.

But once he'd run out of distractions, the apartment quiet and Frank still gone, the truth was unavoidable: Craig couldn't stall any longer. He needed to decide what dress up meant in this new, absurd version of his life.

And so, while he'd closed the closet door in order to concentrate while cleaning, Craig found himself in front of it just a few minutes later needing to open it again. He folded his arms, staring at it for longer than he'd stared at any door before.

Ridiculous.

It was just clothing.

Still, something about the door felt ominous. As though everything waiting behind it knew exactly what it had become. As though it was holding the secret of what his life was about to become.

Craig sighed.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath.

The closet door slid open. Rows of clothing waited inside. Every piece feminine. Every piece unmistakably meant for him.

For a moment Craig simply stared. Even after several days, the sight still felt surreal. Dresses and skirts in soft colours. Blouses with delicate straps. Fabrics that shimmered faintly in the afternoon light drifting through the window. He watched them, and they seemed to watch back, like an audience observing his hesitation.

Calling to him.

Reminding him that this, somehow, was his wardrobe now.

No avoiding it tonight.

In just over an hour Craig would be walking into Frank's mother's house wearing one of these outfits. And introducing himself to her new boyfriend. The thought made his stomach tighten.

Craig stepped forward and began sliding hangers slowly along the closet rod. The quiet clack of plastic against metal filled the room.

Skirts: short ones. Very short ones.

Dresses: some sleek and elegant, others clearly designed with a very different intention in mind.

A few looked almost formal, something a woman might wear to a nice dinner. But modest? That seemed to be a concept Eros had no interest in.

Craig studied one dress thoughtfully before sliding it aside.

Another followed.

And another.

A frustrating pattern quickly emerged. Anything that covered his chest properly ended halfway up his thighs. Anything that offered more coverage for his legs left the neckline plunging dramatically.

Craig leaned back slightly and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Of course," he murmured.

Apparently balance wasn't part of the design philosophy. For several minutes he continued browsing the closet, hangers shifting slowly back and forth as he explored the strange catalogue of clothing he now owned. In his entire life, Craig had never owned this many clothes. He had, at first, thought that his clothing had just been replaced, one-for-one, with feminine outfits. But this was much more. An expansion.

Finally, Craig exhaled slowly. This was pointless. No matter what he chose, something was going to be showing. And the truth, annoying as it was, had already proven itself several times: nobody cared.

The basketball game yesterday had proven that. Frank certainly didn't care. The world had apparently decided that Craig walking around dressed like this was perfectly normal.

Maybe he needed to learn to stop caring too.

With that **** thought settling into place, Craig reached out and grabbed the next hanger without overthinking it. The dress slid free from the rod. Orange fabric unfolded as he held it up.

Thick straps.

A square neckline.

Simple, clean lines.

The skirt portion would definitely show a lot of leg, but honestly, almost everything in the closet would have done the same thing. Craig studied it for another moment before nodding once.

"Good enough."

The dress was laid carefully across the bed.

Next came shoes. Craig moved to the rack near the bottom of the closet and scanned the options. Beige heels caught his eye. Open-toed. Tall; just as high as the others.

A few days ago the sight of them might have caused a wave of nervous dread. Now, Craig found himself reacting very differently. Standing flat-footed hurt. That was simply the reality now. The moment his feet slipped into the angled shape of heels, the pressure eased. Relief followed. It was strange how quickly the brain adapted. Once something became necessary, even something ridiculous could start to feel comforting.

Craig picked up the shoes and set them beside the dress.

Underwear came next. This part took longer than expected. Not because he was trying to assemble a matching outfit. That kind of thinking still felt absurd. Instead, Craig found himself slowly flipping through the drawer with curiosity.

Silk.

Lace.

Bright colours.

Soft pastels.

Every pair unmistakably feminine.

A week ago the entire drawer would have felt like a prank. Now it was just... his underwear.

Eventually Craig selected a delicate white lace pair. Simple. Relatively speaking.

They joined the dress and shoes on the bed.

Then Craig paused. One last decision remained. His gaze drifted toward the final drawer. The one that had changed this morning. The drawer that used to hold his socks.

Walking into dinner wearing heels with completely bare legs would normally have been fine, especially in a world where he was **** to wear a dress. But before Eros had taken control of his wardrobe, showing up someplace where he was instructed to dress up without wearing socks would have been a faux pas. And so, staring at the drawer, Craig knew what he had to do.

The drawer slid open. Rows of delicate fabrics waited inside.

Stockings.

Fishnets.

Pantyhose.

Thigh-highs trimmed with lace.

Several garter belts folded neatly between them.

Craig leaned in closer, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the dresser as he considered the options. His nose wrinkled slightly.

"Yeah... no," he murmured, knowing that he wasn't ready for the more racy options. Not tonight. Not for meeting someone new. Not for sitting across a dinner table under polite conversation and careful first impressions. The idea of showing up in fishnets, or thigh highs, made his stomach twist.

Pantyhose, though...

Craig reached in and pulled out a neatly folded pair. Sheer. Light. Simple enough that, at a glance, they might pass as something almost normal.

Almost.

There was still a faint sheen to them. A softness that caught the light differently than bare skin would. His fingers hesitated on the fabric. Nervousness prickled at the back of his neck. Wearing them felt like crossing another line. Another quiet step deeper into whatever this new reality expected of him.

But showing up without them?

That felt worse.

The last thing Craig wanted was to walk into that house and somehow break an unspoken rule, one that everyone else seemed to understand but him. The idea of Frank's mom's new boyfriend looking at him and seeing something off, something inappropriate, made his chest tighten.

Deviant.

The word surfaced uninvited, and Craig grimaced.

"Yeah," he muttered under his breath, folding the pantyhose over his arm. "Let's not give anyone a reason to think that."

Decision made. Craig carried them over to the bed and laid them carefully beside the rest of the outfit. For a moment, he just stood there.

Dress.

Heels.

Panties.

Pantyhose.

All arranged neatly against the comforter. An outfit. No, something more than that: armour. Protection against a world that no longer followed any rules he understood.

Craig let out a slow breath, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he looked down at it.

Somewhere out there was a woman he'd never met. Someone who, apparently, this was all meant for. Someone whose tastes, if this wardrobe was any indication, leaned heavily toward the bold. The revealing. The unapologetically feminine.

Craig huffed a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"Hope you're worth it, lady," he murmured.

The sound of the apartment door opening cut through the moment. Craig's head snapped up. The rustle of plastic bags shifting. The dull thud of something being set down too heavily.

Frank.

Back from the grocery run.

Craig gave the outfit one last glance before turning away and heading for the door. The hallway felt more grounded. More normal. Just getting away from his closet and the clothes lying on his bed, he became acutely aware of how different his room had become, while how normal the rest of the apartment had remained.

By the time he stepped into the living room, Frank was already halfway inside, arms full of grocery bags, keys dangling from one finger.

"Hey," Craig called, a smile coming easily despite everything.

Frank looked up, a little surprised. "Oh, hey. Didn't hear you."

"Yeah, I was just in my room. Picking out, you know, an outfit for tonight."

Craig stepped forward without thinking and grabbed a couple of the heavier bags from Frank's arms.

"Here, let me help."

"Appreciate it," Frank said, shifting his grip as the weight eased.

Together they moved into the kitchen, setting bags down across the counter. The familiar rhythm took over quickly: unpacking, sorting, sliding items into cupboards and the fridge.

Milk.

Eggs.

Bread.

A few frozen meals tossed into the freezer with a dull thump.

Normal.

Simple.

Grounding.

Craig found himself relaxing slightly as they worked, the quiet domestic routine smoothing out the tension that had been building all afternoon.

"Get everything?" Craig asked, glancing over as he tucked a carton of eggs carefully into place.

"Yeah, pretty much," Frank replied, unscrewing the cap on a drink before taking a quick swig. "Went a little overboard, but whatever."

Once the last bag was emptied and shoved aside, Frank stretched slightly, rolling his shoulders.

"Alright," he said, exhaling. "I need to clean up and get changed. We'll have to get going soon."

He paused, glancing toward Craig.

"You still in?"

Craig didn't hesitate.

A smile tugged at his lips, part genuine, part something else he couldn't quite name.

"I wouldn't miss it."