Edwin sees Vincent on their usual run, but he can't bring himself to confess his crush. It was easy on New Year's Eve to make that resolution, drunk and kissing somebody. But once he is alone with his thoughts, doubt creeps in. He's going to do it, but how? When? Every time he gathers his courage, thinks, now, he opens his mouth and something else comes out, or nothing comes out. It's not the right time, he tells himself. He needs to prepare what he'll say. Brace for rejection. He won't do it in public, out at Bonaparte, where Gert is standing on the other side of the group. He cuts the night short because it twists him up inside, the waiting, the wanting.

Still, on the second Saturday of January, Edwin waits in front of Vincent's store. Through the window, he studies the jewellery and watches on display. Vincent closed the store for the afternoon and went up to use the bathroom and grab his coat, so Edwin only has a few more minutes before he allows Vincent to dress him up however Vincent likes. If he wanted to back out, he should have done that any of the dozen times he's considered it since the movie night. He could have had the perfect excuse to delay the shopping trip, with his birthday tomorrow, but he wouldn't have been more ready a few weeks from now. He definitely wouldn't have been more ready after confessing his crush, or pining away for all those weeks. So when Vincent had asked if Edwin wanted to pick another Saturday, Edwin had waved it off. He'd just be home otherwise, since Saturday dinner is replaced by Sunday party.

So now he has committed. Whatever Vincent throws at him, he will have to try it. He will try it, even when Vincent's enthusiasm scares him a little. Since the moment they fixed a date, he's been babbling about the winter sales this month and different fabrics and how he will transform Edwin into his best self. That seems far-fetched for some clothes, but Edwin hasn't protested. "Think of all the clothes we are getting you as a birthday gift," Vincent had joked. "You'll look extra good on your birthday party, darling."

He hears the click of a door opening and closing and Vincent is putting away his keys. They fall into step next to each other in the direction of the city centre and Vincent steers them to a chain clothing store that doesn't look horribly expensive.

"I often buy second-hand," he explains. "But I think we'll start with something new for you. When's the last time you bought clothes?"

"I bought socks last year."

"Doesn't count. Pants, shirts, jumpers?" Edwin has no answer and Vincent grins. "Thought so, honey. You should probably have shown me your wardrobe, but we'll just buy you a few complete outfits." He must see something on Edwin's face because he repeats: "Just a few, I swear. I'll leave you enough money to buy food this month."

It's quite busy inside the store, but not horrible. The men's section is upstairs and Edwin trails after Vincent as they walk through the clothing racks. Vincent touches the clothes, studies them and then folds them over his arm or lets them fall back in their neat little row. He doesn't ask for Edwin's opinion, just holds items up in front of him, looks Edwin over with an assessing gaze. Eventually, he has gathered a whole pile of different items and moves to the fitting rooms. They need to wait a few minutes for a room to free up and Edwin tries to look what kind of clothes Vincent found. Nothing outrageous, it seems, but he has barely processed how fast Vincent lead them through the store.

"Nervous, darling?" Vincent teases.

"Isn't that pile heavy?"

"Nothing I can't carry. I've done ballet, I could lift you." Edwin flushes. That ... It'd be an impressive sight, for sure. If Vincent ever did that, just to prove he could ...

They snatch a fitting room and Vincent hangs everything up, pants, shirts and jumpers separated. He hands Edwin one from each pile.

"I want you to try these first. Come show me when you've changed." Vincent closes the curtain and Edwin looks at what he's holding. A regular pair of blue jeans, a white shirt and a maroon thickly knitted cardigan with long sleeves. That doesn't seem so bad.

He has only put on the pants and is taking the shirt off the hanger when Vincent's voice calls through the curtain again. "Hey sugar, I picked a belt, too. Put that on too, will you?" He sticks his hand through the curtain. Edwin reflexively holds the shirt in front of his naked chest, but Vincent isn't poking his head in. Edwin accepts the belt and obediently loops it through his jeans. When he looks in the mirror at the complete outfit, he has to admit that it looks good on him. He looks ... well, less like someone who could disappear in the background. He wouldn't have picked jeans, or the colour of the cardigan, but he doesn't mind it. He looks sharp. The cardigan draws attention to his chest and the jeans emphasise the musculature of his thighs. He stands up straighter and he looks commanding, confident. They're not comfort clothes, something he would wear at home, but they prickle a certain excitement in him. He could be seductive in this.

He opens the curtain and doesn't spot Vincent immediately. He turns towards the store and there Vincent is, riffling through the rack with discarded clothes. He has picked up some more clothes, with at least one shirt in a soft blue colour.

"Vincent," he calls and Vincent turns.

"Look at you, darling! That was a great choice. Have you looked in the mirror yet?" He steers Edwin towards the large mirror on the wall and stands behind him, his hands on Edwin's shoulders. "What do you think? How do you feel?"

"Fine. Is this for ... casual wear?"

"Sure. What else would it be?"

"I don't feel casual. Like I should be an actor, maybe."

"That's just because you're not used to it." Vincent's hands glide down from his shoulders over his arms and Edwin has to suppress a shiver. He wants to flinch away and push into the touch at the same time. "You look great, darling. Top tier hot and cosy."

"It's ... I could maybe wear this. I had expected you to pick something more like ... you, I guess."

Vincent laughs and leans in to whisper in Edwin's ear: "Let me tell you a secret: the key to looking good is confidence. You wouldn't feel confident in the type of clothes I wear, so it wouldn't look good on you. But don't worry, pumpkin, I have a few more daring things for you, even if they all are nicely masculine."

Edwin turns and Vincent still stands very close. "Nothing too ... There are other people here who could see." As he says it, he becomes aware what he and Vincent must look like. Vincent ... looks gay and they're standing close and Vincent is calling him petnames and it's ... He steps past Vincent to his fitting room. Vincent instructs him again on what to combine and it's similar to the first outfit, sharp and casual. Jeans and normal pants and shirts, in greys and blues and other colours he would normally wear, but in Vincent's combinations, they somehow look more stylish. There's a turtle-neck, and a jumper with a geometric pattern, too, and he wouldn't have picked that either, but it's understated enough that he doesn't mind.

There is one dress shirt with thin stripes and he holds his breath while Vincent straightens his collar. Vincent's fingers touch his throat and it could almost turn into a caress. He could bend his head and kiss Vincent. Reach out and touch his shoulders, back, hips, butt.

Vincent steps back and studies him. "You should wear button-downs more often, sweetheart. They look good on you."

"I wear them for my job," Edwin says. He has settled on ignoring the compliments because that way lies madness. Still, his hindbrain insistently preens and chants, Vincent thinks I look good, Vincent thinks I look hot, Vincent thinks I'm attractive. Vincent doesn't mean it like that, but that doesn't matter to that part of his brain.

"Really? You've been depriving me! I want to see you in a full suit. You already wear a watch, so if you dress up a little, you'll steal my heart, no doubt."

"You aren't heartless yet?" Edwin flaps out. It must be the proximity, Vincent joking about how Edwin would steal his heart, because if he could, if that was an option, he'd want that, wouldn't he? But it's not, so he flaps out insulting jokes to protect himself.

Vincent laughs. "If you think so, I have achieved my final form as a Disney villain."

"I don't think you're actually —"

"I know, darling. We'll see if you don't change your mind after these last items because I can bet you won't like them." From the bottom of the pile, he picks a pair of slim pants with a geometric pattern of thin white lines on a dark brown fabric. Something warm and soft. That's definitely more daring than anything else he's given Edwin. And then he hands Edwin a white ... It looks like a blouse, with flowing sleeves and a frilly collar. Elegant. Feminine. Something Vincent would wear.

"You want me to wear that?"

"Just try it. Keep an open mind, honey." Edwin closes his hand around the pants and blouse. Well, he can try. No harm in trying. Open mind.

He tries the pants first, without anything for his upper body, and looks in the mirror in the fitting room. It doesn't look like him. The fit is comfortable, if a little tighter than most of his pants, but the look ... Definitely uncomfortable. He would stand out in these, even without the blouse. The blouse that would be understated on a feminine person, neutral, and is about as far from neutral as you can get for him.

He grabs it and the fabric glides through his fingers. It's soft, about as thick as the dress shirt, with pearl-coloured buttons. Would it even fit? Where did Vincent get this? Did he go down to the women's section? He opens the buttons and dread rises with each one slipping through its hole. He's going to do this.

He puts his arms through the sleeves and it fits. It actually fits. He looks down, closing each button, carefully not looking at the mirror or he will take it off. He can't stop now. It's just clothes. Fabric. Things people designed to keep them warm. Why does he care? What if this had hung in the men's section? Would he feel the same panic? It's not — Vincent can wear this, so why can't he?

He looks in the mirror. It fits around his chest and shoulders better than he would have thought. Aren't these things designed for a woman's build? But the fabric settles comfortably, without stretching, hanging over his pants. It sets off his beard scruff. Maybe it'd look better if he shaved. He doesn't know. It looks weird. If the pants didn't look like him, he looks like a stranger now.

"Still alive, sweetheart?" Vincent calls.

"Come in." He's not going out there like this. He'd rather be stuck in a room where they will be standing right next to each other and he risks brushing against Vincent if he even turns.

Vincent slips inside and closes the curtain again, enhancing the intimacy of the space. Just them, closed off from the world, within arm's length. Vincent glances up and down and hovers his hand in front of Edwin's chest.

"You need to tuck it in, darling. Like a dress shirt." Before Edwin can react, Vincent reaches out and tucks in the blouse for Edwin. Edwin's muscles spasm, but he stands frozen, even lifts his hands so Vincent can get around to the back. Vincent is touching him. In a place that is decidedly not a casual friendly touch. He can't — Why — Is this just because Vincent knows no boundaries? It can't mean anything, but it can't not.

"There, all better," Vincent says and even though he's not as close, Edwin can still smell his perfume when he breathes, still feel his hands. He wants to draw Vincent in and aches with this almost. He wants this, but not this.

"I think it looks nice on you." Edwin startles out of his stupor. He'd forgotten what he's even wearing. Is that the secret to not caring, distraction? If Vincent stayed so close, touched him like that, maybe he'd wear anything.

"I'm —" He can't really see beyond his discomfort to say if it looks nice.

"Uncomfortable?"

"Yeah. It fits. So not like that. But ... I don't know. It's meant to be just clothes, right? Why am I so uncomfortable? Is this a blouse?" He plucks at the fabric.

"It's a button-up, but with a ruffle collar. That's why it looks feminine. I have a sweater for you to wear over it, too." He holds up a sweater in autumn red and gold. All of it is eye-catching. He wouldn't be the tree like this. He'd be the foliage, the flowers. He reaches out and the sweater is so soft he can hardly believe it. It must be incredibly high-quality wool.

Vincent takes out the hanger and Edwin pulls it over his head. Vincent straightens his collar again and when Edwin looks in the mirror — He's not sure if it's better. Different. The sweater is okay. And soft. He might buy it just for that, to wear at home where no one can see him. It's like the nail polish.

"It's stupid. I don't know why it makes me feel — itchy. Looking like this. They're not even women's clothes. I know it doesn't make me less of a man. And I'm still —" His fingers clench on air in frustration.

"Do you remember what I said when we watched Mulan, darling? About how she changes to look like a guy and that's why some people read her as trans?"

Edwin digs through his memories. "Trans men want to look like men?"

Vincent chuckles. "Clothes are not just clothes, for most people. They're a form of self-expression. It's about what makes you feel good, like yourself. And they're also about how other people will see us, how we want them to see us. There's all these different pieces. For most people, they align, but not always."

"Some people don't care how people see them."

"No."

"But I do."

"Most people do, sweetheart. At least a little. You're a man and you want to be seen as a masculine man. Nothing wrong with that."

"So why are you giving me this? Feminine clothes?"

Vincent shrugs. "Won't know until you try. And since society has taught you this makes you less masculine, less of a man, you're probably not going to like it the first time." Because he's too scared. Vincent doesn't say it, but Edwin can fill in the blanks. He's scared of, of some fabric, the judgement of strangers. His discomfort is fear and he hates it. He's not supposed to be scared of something silly. Vincent isn't scared, of anything. He's always fully, unabashedly himself, always goes for what he wants. And what does Edwin do? He can't even properly ask Vincent out and freezes whenever Vincent touches him, scared shitless that he'll betray his feelings, of the rejection that will follow. Vincent at least has reason to be scared because people like him are ridiculed, attacked, denied healthcare. Killed.

"Did you know before you tried?"

Vincent shrugs. "That's complicated, darling. I've always worn feminine things, but people didn't see me as a man back then. I liked the things, but I didn't like that people saw me as a girl."

"Do you ever wear masculine clothes?"

Vincent laughs. "Mostly if I want proper pockets, darling." Pockets?!

"What do pockets have to do with masculine clothes?"

"Oh, you privileged darling! Have you never studied Ellen's pants? I'll show you downstairs."

Vincent leaves to fitting room, so Edwin can change back into his own clothes in peace. He hesitates for a long while what he'll buy and what he won't. The first outfits were okay. He might wear them. But the last one ... He'll buy the sweater. If he comes home and he decides he wants the pants and the button-up after all, he'll come back. But he doesn't want to buy something now that he won't ever wear.

Vincent doesn't say anything about the items he discards. They check out upstairs and downstairs, Vincent takes him to the pants in the women's section.

"Look," he says, "try to put your hand in these pockets, darling." Edwin switches the shopping bag to his other hand and touches and there's ... a seam. No pocket. It only looks like one. He looks up at Vincent in confusion.

"Women get fake pockets or smaller pockets, like the back pockets. Men get lots of pockets because they need them to carry all their fragile masculinity." Vincent winks and Edwin blinks. What? Is that — Pockets to carry fragile masculinity? Is that a dick joke? He doesn't even know what it's supposed to mean. It's not his fault women get fake pockets.

"That's not nice."

"Nope," Vincent replies brightly. "Anything feminine and you draw the short straw in this world, honey."

They leave the store and Edwin wonders if Vincent was making fun of him, saying he's scared, less masculine because he has ... bigger pockets? That sounds absurd, even in his head. Vincent hasn't noticed his unrest because he comments on the pigeons and the jewellers they pass. Edwin laughs when Vincent grabs his shoulder and holds out his wrist. "Say, how would I look with real Antwerpian diamonds? I think I deserve a treat."

"I can cook for you," Edwin offers, before he can think twice. "If you come back to mine. I can teach you how to cook."

"Now?" Vincent's smile turns brighter. "You're inviting me to dinner? Oh my, darling, you're getting bold. I'd love to. Would be a real treat." He squeezes Edwin's arm as if to say he's sincere, and Edwin's heart beats faster. Cooking means being close, taking care of each other. It's something he does with his family, for his friends.

Hecould teach Vincent something. For once, he will be the teacher. Thatalone would already be worth it.