The Price of Victory

By the time Craig pushed the door open and stepped inside, evening had taken over the space afternoon had filled so warmly. The light had taken on a golden hue, giving everything a rich, slow feel.

The quiet of the hallway greeted him first. Then the familiar little console table beside the door came into view, the ceramic bowl sitting exactly where it always did, filled with keys, loose change, and the small clutter that seemed to collect in shared apartments over time. Frank's keys still dangled from Craig's fingers.

For a second he stood there, replaying the last few hours in his head. The game. The running. The jump shots. The strange, exhilarating feeling of moving across the court like his body actually knew what it was doing. For a few minutes that afternoon, Craig had felt like a different person, a more able, more confident person. One who could do almost anything.

A faint grin tugged at his mouth.

Then the moment passed, replaced by the realization of what he had been **** to give up to achieve those fleeting moments of athletic success.

The keys dropped into the bowl with a metallic clink. Craig stepped farther inside and nudged the door shut behind him.

From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of something sizzling in a pan. Curiosity pulled him down the short hallway. The kitchen light was on. The stovetop hissed softly. And standing at the stove, looking like a man who had barely survived a war, was Frank.

His roommate looked terrible.

Hair flattened awkwardly on one side and sticking straight up on the other. Broad shoulders hunched. One hand holding a spatula over the frying pan while the other gripped a half-empty bottle of Gatorade like it was medical equipment. Bacon crackled in the pan. Two eggs were already cooking beside it.

Craig leaned against the doorway.

"Bit late for breakfast, isn't it?"

Frank jumped. The spatula nearly flew out of his hand.

"Jesus!"

He spun halfway around, blinking blearily at Craig like someone whose brain was still struggling to reconnect to the outside world.

"Oh," he muttered. "Hey."

Craig folded his arms.

"You okay?"

Frank took a long pull from the Gatorade bottle before answering.

"This," he said hoarsely, gesturing vaguely at the pan, "is the only thing my body wants right now. Bacon. Eggs. Salt. Grease."

He paused.

"Must be the hangover."

Craig nodded sympathetically. The smell, unfortunately, was incredible. Frank turned back to the stove, nudging the eggs with the spatula.

"Thanks for filling in for me today," he said. "How'd it go?"

Something bright sparked instantly in Craig's chest. The grin returned without permission.

"It was great."

Frank glanced over his shoulder, a small smirk on his face.

"Yeah?"

Craig stepped fully into the kitchen now, the excitement bubbling up again as the memories returned.

"Seriously. I didn't expect it to be that fun."

"See? I told you it would be fine."

Craig laughed softly.

"I know, but I was nervous. But you were right. It actually was."

The words started tumbling out faster now.

"They're good guys. The whole team. They kept saying they missed you, by the way. But they were really welcoming."

Frank flipped the bacon with a quick snap of the spatula. Craig continued, energy building in his voice.

"And the game itself? I don't know what happened, but I just felt... alive out there. Like my body knew what to do. I was running, pivoting..."

He shook his head, still half amazed.

"Honestly, I've never been good at sports before. But today? It felt like I could do anything."

Frank turned fully now, eyebrows raised.

"And? Did we win?"

Craig's grin widened.

"Yeah."

A pleased expression spread slowly across Frank's exhausted face.

"Well that makes sense," he said, returning to his cooking. "Our group chat lit up after the game. They all want you on the team. Like, we need another player for days like today. They want me to ask you."

The eggs flipped neatly in the pan. Craig stared at his roommate in disbelief. Sure, he'd had a great time playing that afternoon, but it had to be a fluke. A guy with no basketball experience, playing in a skirt and heels, made a few baskets. Yeah, he was being affected by Eros' power, but he'd never been accepted by a group of men like that before, being taken in as an equal, invited to contribute in anything athletic.

"What do you say?" Frank asked. "Want to join?"

Two slices of bread disappeared into the toaster. Craig leaned against the counter, the lingering adrenaline slowly fading as he considered the consequences. Yes, he'd be able to play, and probably play well, but he'd be dressed as he was right then. Or maybe worse. Was Eros done with him? Or did he have other plans?

Or was this the plan? Was Craig's soulmate going to find him on the basketball court? A woman watching the gameplay, someone passing by, or maybe someone from a woman's league.

"I'm in," Craig responded. Whatever it took to get to Eros' endgame, whatever he needed to do to finish this insanity more quickly, he would do. "I'm gonna change."

"Yeah, yeah. Food'll be ready in a few," Frank waved a hand. "Welcome to the team."

Craig slipped out of the kitchen and headed down the hall. His bedroom door creaked softly as it opened. The room looked exactly the same as when he'd left earlier. Same bed. Same desk. Same dresser. Same closet.

And the same wardrobe situation.

Craig walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Rows of socks greeted him. He picked up a pair automatically. Plain. Comfortable. Normal. The last pieces of male clothes left in his possession.

Craig stared at them for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

"As if those are going to help," he muttered.

The socks went right back into the drawer.

Sweat clung lightly to his skin from the game, but the thought of standing in the shower right now felt exhausting. All he wanted was food, a chair, maybe the couch, and eventually sleep.

Basketball had been thrilling. But for someone who didn't usually exercise, it had also been brutal on his body. Comfort, Craig decided, was the priority.

The dresser drawer below opened with a soft wooden scrape. Grey fabric caught his eye. "Perfect," he murmured.

He pulled them out. Then unfolded them. Craig stared. They were not sweatpants. They were extremely short grey booty-shorts. Across the back, in large bubble letters, were the words:

YES DADDY

Craig closed his eyes for a moment.

"Of course," he sighed.

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating. Still, they did look as comfortable as anything else he would now own. And they would get him out of wearing a skirt.

With a resigned shake of his head, Craig stepped out of the skirt and pulled the shorts on. The soft fabric hugged tightly around his hips and thighs, leaving very little to the imagination.

Next came a shirt. He didn't even bother digging through the closet. The first garment his hand touched came off the hanger and went straight over his head.

Thin straps. Red. Feminine.

Finally, the shoes.

Craig slipped off the wedge sneakers and nudged them aside with his foot, standing on his toes. The closest pair of footwear sat beside the bed.

Glossy black high heels. Tall. Shiny. Impossible to ignore.

Craig picked them up.

A moment later they were on his feet, the relief in his legs palpable as the pressure on his calves eased.

Standing again, he glanced briefly in the mirror. The outfit was ridiculous. But comfortable.

Good enough.

Back to the kitchen he went.

Frank was just finishing plating the food when Craig returned. Two plates sat on the counter, piled generously with bacon and eggs. The toaster popped up behind them.

Frank glanced over.

"Hey. Can you set the table?"

"Sure."

Craig moved toward the cupboard, grabbing two plates, then two cups.

Silverware followed.

The stack felt slightly awkward in his hands as he carried it back toward the table.

Halfway there...

Clink.

A knife slipped free and hit the floor. Craig sighed.

"Hold on."

He set the rest of the dishes down carefully on the counter, then bent to retrieve the knife. Behind him, footsteps entered the room. Frank's voice followed immediately.

"Holy... Craig."

Craig froze.

"You been working out?"

Confusion flickered through his mind. The knife sat just within reach on the floor. Then he realized. Frank wasn't looking at the knife. Frank was looking directly at Craig's backside.

The position he'd bent into had stretched the grey shorts tightly across his hips, the words YES DADDY displayed proudly across the fabric.

Heat flooded Craig's face.

He grabbed the knife and straightened quickly.

"Uh...no," he mumbled.

The knife landed on the table with the rest of the silverware as he tried to act like nothing had happened.

Frank leaned against the counter, studying him thoughtfully.

"Well whatever the case," he said, "you're looking good."

Craig blinked.

"With a body like that," Frank continued casually, "you look like you're gunning to be in an action movie and do your own stunts."

Craig stared at him. For a moment his brain struggled to process the words. Then the realization sank in. Eros. Of course. Another little adjustment. Another subtle push. Another thing Craig had definitely not asked for.

"Thanks," he said weakly.

Frank just shrugged and carried the plates over to the table.

Craig sat down slowly, suddenly very aware of his body.

The bacon smelled incredible. His stomach growled. Craig piled food onto his plate quickly and started eating. Halfway through the meal, the exhaustion hit him properly. Not just from the game. From everything.

The clothes.

The magic.

The constant surprises.

Every day seemed to come with another little change waiting around the corner.

By the time his plate was empty, Craig had already made his decision.

"I think I'm just going to head to my room," he said.

Frank looked up from his food.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Craig replied quickly. "Just tired from the game."

Frank nodded.

"Fair."

Craig gave a small wave and headed down the hallway. The bedroom door closed softly behind him. Craig sank onto the edge of the bed. The room settled back into silence.

For a long moment he simply sat there, staring at the floor. The game had been exciting. Thrilling, even. But underneath that excitement sat something heavier.

Exhaustion. Not the physical kind. The kind that came from constantly trying to keep up with a life that kept changing without his permission.

Craig lay back onto the bed with a tired sigh. Somewhere out there, an ancient god of love was apparently very proud of today's work.

Craig, on the other hand, just wanted a nap.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies for posting a draft version of this chapter last night. I was tired and feeling a little sick. Accidentally hit the wrong button!