"Let's do your usual run," Vincent suggests. He's wearing skin-tight running clothes that are somehow more modest than what he usually wears, in conservative dark colours. Only his shoes are flashy, with rainbow colours and reflective stripes. Edwin looks at Vincent in short glances, never more than a few seconds. The clothes might be not unlike his own, but they accentuate Vincent's body and if he looked any longer, he might stare.

"Let's go then."

They're in a quiet neighbourhood where Edwin often goes running. Traffic is sparse in the hours after dinner and it's safer to run here under the street lights than the unlit trail in the woods that he prefers in the summer. But even on the sidewalk, the first autumn leaves from the trees lining the street crisp under their feet, so it's not all grey stone and asphalt.

The night air is heavy with silence. Vincent isn't talking or flirting and there's just the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement. It's weird. Vincent is always so obviously loud and flashy and different than Edwin, but now they seem almost alike. The feeling settles like a pebble in his shoes, throws him slightly off-step, never finding his rhythm.

It's too easy. Vincent is never an easy road, never safe ground. Edwin is always at risk of falling, when Vincent is near. He's thought about that all weekend because it would explain why he thought on Friday that he was attracted to Vincent. He just mistook his discomfort for attraction. Vincent makes him question himself, flirts until Edwin's heart races and he tenses up. But he can't be attracted to Vincent. Vincent is feminine and Edwin knows he's not attracted to femininity. He spent most of his life with a feminine woman and he wasn't attracted to her, not like that. He likes men. Their muscles and strength, their body hair, their jawlines, their chests and broad shoulders, their smell. He likes masculine men. Vincent isn't masculine like that.

But now that the thought has first taken root that he might be attracted to Vincent, it's already more firmly entrenched than Edwin would like. He can't stop thinking about it. What if he's wrong? He was wrong about who he was attracted to for fifty years. But he doesn't understand why he would be attracted to Vincent. It makes no sense.

Sure, he can understand why other people might find Vincent attractive, but that's no different from how he understands Ellen is attractive. He even doesn't dislike Vincent as much as when they met. But Vincent still unsettles him, disturbing his balance and the surety of his steps in unpredictable ways. Vincent flirts and jokes and provokes and pokes and Edwin doesn't like that. He's only learned to tolerate it. But what if he's fooling himself? Those thoughts on Friday were so unexpected, they must be his. Or maybe it's just that, a weird thought that doesn't mean anything, not a genuine desire.

Edwin glances at Vincent. He wouldn't want to touch Vincent now, would he? Sleep with him? No, he wouldn't. He can imagine the jokes Vincent would make and his heart curls up in his chest. He shouldn't go down that path. They should talk. That's why they're meeting up, isn't it?

"You're not wearing make-up now."

Vincent stumbles sideways into Edwin for a second. "What? No, I'm not. Have you now arrived at the point where you think I should wear make-up all the time instead of never?"

"No, no! I just ... noticed." Maybe he should have taken more time to think about a conversation starter, but he always flaps out things before he can think about them when he's around Vincent. Vincent's presence does that to him because he is never so impulsive with anyone else. It'd be so much easier if Vincent had started talking. "I thought ..." It's weird to see Vincent without make-up, quiet and in practical clothes. He looks plain. Approachable and friendly, not dazzling and overwhelming. He thought Vincent always wore make-up.

"Lots of sweat and make-up don't mix well, darling. And believe me when I say I sweat rivers."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that." Of course Vincent doesn't wear make-up when he's sweating a lot. Exercising. Of the literal kind. Not in a bed because he doesn't want to think about that. Would Vincent put on make-up for that? "I thought ... You said gender was a performance and with the drag show, that was ... special. They don't do that all the time. But you're not performing like that. So I thought you wouldn't want to go out without make-up." He glances at Vincent, who catches his gaze and smiles. That's a better reaction than he expected. Whenever he asks a question or expresses an opinion, he is waiting for Vincent to tell him he put his foot in his mouth, again. Even when Vincent doesn't berate him, his words feel sharp.

They had kept talking on Friday, about drag, and when Edwin had said it was all so extreme, so provocative, Vincent had laughed and replied: "That's the point, darling." And Edwin knew that, he did. That was what he'd realised during the show, but it was all so self-evident for Vincent that it felt silly to say it to him.

"That's ... How can I say this?" They cross gazes again. Vincent's eyes reflect the lamplight, like black pools of water in the night. "Why do you think I wear make-up?"

"Uhm ..." Edwin touches Vincent's arm to lead him down a side street. "Let's go right here." It's more stalling than a necessary instruction.

"I- Because you can?" Vincent chuckles at that, but Edwin soldiers on. "You want to be loud, to challenge people. I don't know how you said it when you, when we fought, but you dare people to say something about it, to be, to be judgemental. It's like a protest. If they're going to judge you, you just do what they expect and act on all the stereotypes. Like they're your weapons."

"My weapons? I didn't know being myself was so dangerous. Have I already disarmed you, sweetheart? Pierced your heart just by being near you?"

Edwin's mouth opens without a sound. Vincent laughs. "I'm just joking. You're not entirely wrong. I do like that, but it's more like a bonus. It's much simpler, really. You practically said it. Why do you think women wear make-up?"

Edwin's nails bite into the palms of his hands and he consciously relaxes. Vincent is not implying he should know better, but he really should. He wants to prove Vincent wrong, but he only ever seems to prove him right. "Because" — he thinks of the conversation in the kitchen with Ellen and his daughters — "society expects it?"

Vincent laughs out loud and brushes against Edwin's arm. Not skin on skin because they're both wearing sleeves, but still very close. "You got me there. But beyond that?"

Still not good enough? What does Vincent even want to hear? "I think there are a lot of reasons. I don't know. Because they want to look good?" That's what Ellen said, right? That's the point of make-up.

"Of course! So why would men be any different? It's what I said about drag. It challenges gender, but drag is also about fun, an art form, self-expression. Regular make-up is the same concept. Western society might rather we don't wear make-up, but I think it looks good. I feel good when I wear make-up. But I don't need to wear it every time I go out the door." With a cheeky tone, he adds: "I'm always hot, make-up just makes me hotter, honey." Edwin's gaze is drawn to Vincent again, the sweat, the way his hair falls over his forehead. He thinks back to the way Vincent looked in Que Pasa, or that first time they met in Bonaparte. The make-up accentuated the depth of his eyes, the shape of his face, the radiance of his skin. Something hot rises up under Edwin's clothes and he focuses on the cold of the air he's breathing.

"I understand. Well, I don't understand why it's fun, but I understand that if women wear make-up because they like it, men can be the same. I just ... Why would you put yourself through the reactions just for that?" He wants to take the question back as soon as it's out of his mouth. Stupid. Vincent will think he's judging him again. "Sorry."

"It's okay, sweetheart. You're just asking questions. And there's plenty of people who agree with you. Men who are too afraid, or who never find out they would like it. It's never just fun, unfortunately. If I wear make-up, it's always going to be a statement. That's why your first answer is not entirely wrong." Well, at least he got something right. "I can only speak for myself, by the way."

"So you ... Why do you wear make-up then? Is it, uh, do you want to shove it in people's faces? Because you don't want them to ignore it?"

"I said that last month, didn't I? That's part of it, sure. It's ... I do it because I enjoy it, for a whole bunch of reasons. If I really wanted to, I could follow the norms, fit in with the masses. But I'd have to suppress what I want, constantly be vigilant that I don't say something that would out me. I wouldn't be happy. It's less painful, less effort even, to deal with the abuse I get for being very visible than the constant anxiety of cutting off pieces of myself so I can fit in a very narrow box that I don't like."

"Ah." It comes out tight. Edwin doesn't know if it's from running or Vincent's words.

"And while I'm at it, might as well disrupt society. Sow gayness and chaos." Vincent chuckles. "Until the norms are so broken nobody bothers."

"That's ... I understand now. A little. Hiding is awful and if that — make-up — is part of who you are ..." As long as he didn't realise he was gay, he was happy enough, but as soon as he realised ... At first, it had crossed his mind to just stay with Ellen, to not say anything. Or maybe say something because Ellen deserved his honesty, but still stay with her if she was okay with that. But now he thinks that pressure would have built up until the dam broke and the lake flooded the valley, rather than picking the time and manner, how fast the water came out and rewrote the landscape.

"Exactly, honey. For me, if I'm gonna leave one closet, might as well leave them all. I need to shine, baby!" Yeah, Edwin can't imagine Vincent wanting to stay in the shadows.

"You are ... definitely very loud. You can't not look at you." As he says it, Edwin turns his head and Vincent has an amused smile. The wave of heat returns and he suppresses a shiver. He usually doesn't get this hot when he's running. "I just ... Are those the only options? Screaming to the world or hiding? Because I ... I don't know." He doesn't want to hide, but he doesn't want to scream either. But does not being so loud mean he's hiding? That can't be right.

"Ah." Vincent takes his time to answer, puffing breaths into the night air. Edwin focuses on the roll of his feet, not stumbling or slipping on fallen leaves. If he ignores the uncertainty of the conversation, the fear of misstepping, insulting Vincent, it's nice to run with someone. Ellen never enjoyed it and his basketball friends stuck with basketball. Tamara would sometimes join him in the summer, but she didn't care enough to go out in the cold. Edwin has never minded, except the empty streets could take on a life of their own and the cold would press in. He always feels better when he's not alone. He's gotten used to his empty apartment, but he can't go out or have people over every day and the evenings are especially hard. More so now that it's dark earlier and he wants to feel the warmth of someone's presence.

"You're right. I sometimes forget." Vincent exhales hard. "I'm a bit of an all or nothing guy, if you hadn't noticed." Edwin chuckles. "I know I can be ... Not just doing what I like, but shoving it in people's faces, as you say. And that's ..." He hesitates. "It's me, obviously, but that part is also a performance. That extra layer. My weapons. Or my shield. I'm not constantly so loud." Another pause. It feels weighted, intimate. A confession. Their breaths sound too harsh. "I enjoy quiet, if you can believe it. Just being at home, my own time, not worrying about others."

"So why do you do it then? Can't you just ... be yourself and not worry about others?"

Vincent laughs. "If only it was so easy, sweetie. People are people and the more outrageous I am, the less likely they are to say those politely homophobic things. If they're gonna be bigots, they'd better be bigots who don't pretend to be anything else. None of that "I'm not homophobic, but" bullshit. If I'm loud, their queerphobia is also louder. And I don't want them to just ignore that I'm different, that I don't fit their world view. Nothing is going to change if they're not forced to confront their thoughts."

"I think you said that to me. In September. Because I was like that. Am. Sorry." But he has to give it to Vincent, it did work. Not at first, but he would have never asked Ellen or his daughters if he hadn't fought with Vincent, if there was no niggling sense of doubt.

"You don't need to keep apologising, honey. Most people cling even harder to their opinions when they need to admit they're wrong, so you're not doing so bad. Can't unlearn everything all at once. Or without effort. And you're willingly subjecting yourself to me when you'd rather be elsewhere, so I consider that sufficient payment." Vincent laughs. Edwin joins in, but it's not totally genuine. It doesn't feel good to be wrong, still.

He shouldn't care about Vincent's opinion, but he wants Vincent to respect him. To like him. And effort, 'not so bad', that's not respect, not liking him. Even if he doesn't even like Vincent. Or maybe a little. He's nicer than Edwin thought. More bark than teeth. He can see it now, how Vincent might have a soft underbelly and that's why he attacks first. And wins. Edwin can't imagine Vincent not winning any verbal sparring, but he must have been hurt before, if he's learned to attack first. Maybe even by other gay people, who were like Edwin and judged him. Edwin didn't mean to hurt him, but Vincent just ... provokes people until they hurt him. And then he can say: "See, I was right. You hurt me."

Maybe he is right. Maybe it'd have come out eventually and Vincent just wanted to skip the wait, be sure what people really think as soon as possible and that's why he pokes and prods until someone bites back or not.

He must have made a lot of enemies like that, people who would have tolerated him otherwise. He doesn't try to keep the peace, like Edwin would do. He understands filtering out false friends, but if they're not his friends, why make them his enemies? Yet Vincent seems to have a lot of friends everywhere they go. People like him. That girl at Bonaparte was protective of him. She said he'd had bad experiences, with his partners. Would his flirting put them off? That must also be part of the performance, the shield. Not real.

All the times Vincent flirted with him must have been like that, because why would he be interested in someone like Edwin? Someone who ... looks straight and isn't interested in fashion or make-up and who constantly thinks and says the wrong things about people like Vincent. Vincent would like someone who is more like him, who knows all the right things and is confident and expressive and beautiful. Edwin knows he's not unattractive. There were all those guys on Grindr. But if they knew him, what he's like and how little he knows what he's doing, they wouldn't be interested. A guy like Vincent could get anyone he wanted. If they are not put off by the make-up and femininity and flirting. Are they?

"Can I ask another question? It might be too personal."

"Ask away, darling. I'm an open book." Vincent really isn't, but it reassures Edwin. He probably won't cross a line if that's Vincent's attitude.

"Do you — Are men attracted to your make-up? And you know." He gestures at the whole of Vincent's body, his femininity, and bumps into Vincent again. They really are jogging very close together. "Do you wear make-up to attract men? Like women do?"

Vincent laughs. "Why, are you not attracted to my stunningly good looks?"

"I-" Edwin can't even think what to say to that. No? Yes? I don't know? You confuse me? I'm trying to figure it out?

"You can't fault me, darling. It's a bit of a weird question."

"I warned you," Edwin mutters, embarrassed.

"You did." Vincent sounds delighted. "I am certainly not a virgin, if that answers your question. Attraction is complicated. There's always gonna be people who don't like what I'm packing, and people who don't care, and people who like it without being weird about it. People like confidence and I feel good about myself when I wear make-up, so I'm going to say yes. You can always test it out for yourself."

Edwin looks at the ground and speeds up. They've slowed down a lot with all their conversation. "No thank you."

"Not even once?" Vincent teases. "I'll even help you. No pressure."

"I don't- I'm not confident like you. I don't think I can pull that off. It makes me feel ... It's not homophobic if I don't want to try." It comes out defensive, small.

"Of course not, darling. Sometimes you don't know until you try it, but it's probably not going to ruin your life if you never try. But you don't need to go out in the world for that. If the issue is confidence, just do it at home and ask a friend you trust who knows what they're doing." So not you, Edwin thinks. They aren't at the 'trusted friend' stage yet. When he doesn't reply, Vincent continues: "I'm just throwing it out there because make-up is not only for 'men like me' who want to 'make their sexuality their identity'. And it doesn't have to be big. Just some accents to really show off your face, because you have a nice face." Edwin almost chokes on his spit and coughs into his elbow.

"Everything okay?" Vincent grips his other arm. His hand is warm and tight, strong. "Let's stop for a bit. We've been running and talking a lot. How far do we still need to run?"

Edwin stays half turned away, so Vincent can't see his face. "Not that far. I'm fine. Sorry."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Edwin straightens. Vincent stands close enough that he could maybe count his lashes if it wasn't dark. The shadows play with the angles on his face, with the lines of his muscles. He's probably staring. He's been looking a lot at Vincent, and he doesn't know if that's because he wants to look or because he wants to check if he's attracted to Vincent.

And then Vincent goes and says something like that. Is Vincent attracted to him? That'd be ... He doesn't know how to feel about that. Or is it just flirting? Or just ... appreciation? Objectively recognising that someone is nice to look at? He can recognise that other people might find Vincent attractive. His face, his hair, his lean muscles, his posture. He wants Vincent to step closer and press his body against Edwin's own.

Oh hell, even he's not that blind. He wants to lick the sweat in Vincent's neck. In all his focus on Vincent's femininity, he'd forgotten that Vincent is still a man, that there's masculinity under that femininity. And that masculinity ... is really hot. He wants to map out Vincent's muscles with his hands, test his strength, see him dance again.

With Vincent so close, he feels frozen. He needs space to think. If Vincent asked him again if he wanted to try out make-up, he might say yes right now.

"Let's finish off our run or we'll get cold," he says.

They start running again, and the last kilometre passes with less heavy conversation. Vincent tells a story about a couple buying wedding rings in his store and they chat about music. Vincent will neutrally tolerate anything that fits the definition, but the only music he actively listens to is almost all acoustic. Classical, jazz, singer-songwriters, musicals, film. He loves any kind of dance music the most — tango, swing, waltzes, the whole lot — but that doesn't surprise Edwin. They playfully argue the merits of fanfare orchestras versus symphonic orchestras and Edwin talks more than he usually does. Vincent knows how to tease it out of him.

His attention is heady. Edwin wants to soak it up, now that he acknowledges he wants it. He wants Vincent to like him, to talk to him. It might be a lost cause, since he has to compensate for his bad impression, but when they're not navigating on terrain that is unfamiliar to him, waiting for one wrong rock to slip loose and set off an avalanche, it's almost easy. Maybe he does understand why everyone likes Vincent so much.

The more he thinks about it, the more he's sure that Vincent is very much his type. Ellen has the same confidence, but Vincent is also physically his type. He's not dainty. Edwin likes muscles, yes, but lean muscles. Vincent has thick hair, and his gaze doesn't set off anxiety, but butterflies. Or maybe both. He still feels silly, stupid, when he talks to Vincent. Afraid to say or do the wrong thing, but maybe that's more because he wants to impress Vincent and less so because the disapproval he hears in Vincent's words is actually there.

Edwin doesn't know how these things go. He never let himself even contemplate the possibility that he was attracted to men until last year and now he's not just realising he's attracted to a man, but he could act on it. But not yet, because it's scary. He should probably really show Vincent that he's learning first. If he will even say anything. Attraction is one thing, a hook-up or a relationship is on a whole other level. Does he even want that? He's torn between the mental image of Vincent mocking him for his inexperience and the dawning knowledge that Vincent would be careful not to do that accidentally if he asked.

He doesn't know what to do about this attraction because Vincent is not convenient, but maybe he can just let it be. If he acts normal, Vincent won't know. He needs time and space to properly process this. Maybe talk to some friends. They will be all too happy to help him out.