The doorbell rings and Edwin looks up at the wall, as if he can see through it who is outside. It's a Sunday afternoon, and Caroline called in the morning, so he isn't expecting anyone. Some Scouts children selling waffles, maybe? He mutes the TV and folds the newspaper he wasn't reading. He unlocks the door and —

"Vincent? What are you doing here?" They had another date on Friday — they played a few different racing games, elbowing and sabotaging each other to win, and it had devolved into laughter and cuddling and furiously making out on the couch in 'revenge' — but nothing today. He glances down at himself, at his definitely not fashionable pants and jumper. Shit. He must smell sweaty, too, from cooking lunch and vacuuming. He should have taken his shower then, instead of lying down for a nap first. He wipes a hand over his head to try and flatten any hair that might stick up. He looks like a slob, while Vincent is perfectly poised.

Vincent grins and holds up a large printed plastic bag with what looks like two cardboard boxes in it. "I've got a surprise for you." He steps inside and Edwin closes the door on autopilot. A surprise? Anxiety pools in his stomach.

"And it couldn't wait?"

"The surprise could wait, darling. I couldn't." Vincent drops the bag and the closed umbrella he's carrying, and takes off his coat. "I want to see how you react." He smirks and Edwin's jaw tenses. If he's on display ... Does Vincent want to watch him fail? To mock him? He thought they were over that, with how much fun they had on Friday, or the week before, when they first had sex. He thought he'd feel equal now, that they'd behave like equals.

"So this is really a surprise for you. Not for me."

"It can't be a surprise if I know I'm getting it, sugar. But it's definitely a present for me." Vincent walks through to the living room and Edwin trails after him. This is only the third time Vincent is here, but already he's filling up the space, taking ownership.

They sit down on the couch and Vincent pulls out a shoe box and sets it down on the coffee table. "Okay, close your eyes." He holds Edwin's gaze until Edwin complies. The anxiety in his stomach coagulates. This is why he doesn't like surprises. They're unpredictable. He's unprepared, just drifting along on the stream. And that's all fine, until he hits a rock. He's going to hit a rock sooner or later.

"Hands open, darling" Vincent instructs, and Edwin obeys. A second later, a memory flashes through his mind of Vincent using that tone when they had sex. He clenches his eyes shut tighter and breathes through the images. He can hear rustling of tissue paper. Vincent drops two items in his hands, one in each. He can feel a sort of hard block against the heel of his palm, and then a gap, and then something softer than the block on his fingers, but still a shape without give. "You can look now."

Edwin opens his eyes.

They're heels. Neon pink heeled boots, calf-high.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" He tilts one up and shifts his grip. The boot is smooth, without bells and whistles, only a zipper on the inside. Is he supposed to give these to Sandra or Tamara? But Vincent has never met them. Tamara would never wear these. Vincent said it was a present for himself.

"What do you do with shoes, darling? You should wear them, of course."

"Wear them? But they're women's shoes."

"And they're men's shoes if a man wears them. I brought some for me, too." Vincent pulls the bag off the second shoe box and takes off the lid. Lying on Edwin's coffee table are two bright golden, sparkly heeled boots. There are decorative straps at the ankles and up the legs, and they are taller than the boots in Edwin's hand. His gaze shifts to the heels and his breath catches in his throat. The height of the heel is terrifying. The boots in Edwin's hands have a heel that's maybe five centimetres tall. These heels are at least ten centimetres. They're begging you to fall and break your ankle. He's never even seen Ellen or Caroline wear anything like that.

"I don't think they'll fit." Women usually have smaller feet, don't they?

"They should. These are made for drag queens and I looked at your shoe size." Vincent is grinning relentlessly and Edwin's face feels tight.

"You looked at my shoes?"

Vincent shrugs. "I did. I might be here today on impulse, but I didn't get those heels on impulse, darling. I got them from a friend this morning."

"So you want me to wear them ... right now."

"Why not, darling?" Vincent grabs the heels from Edwin's hands, still standing upright in his palms. He sets them on the floor. "I didn't bring them here so they can gather dust in your closet. I want to see you walk in them. Just try it for me and let me have my fun. You don't even need to like them."

Edwin looks down dubiously at the shoes, but Vincent is sliding off the couch and kneeling on the floor, opening the zipper on the side of the boots, holding one open for Edwin. Edwin toes off his house slippers and dips his foot into the first boot. There is no way they'll fit, and then he's done. Vincent won't be able to insist. He won't make a fool of himself, in these ... these shoes that are as much a shoe as a mansion is a house. It doesn't cover the extravagance of it. It screams, look at me, see how magnificent I am.

The boot fits. The height of it feels weird and it's maybe a little too big, but it fits. Vincent zips it up and Edwin is now wearing one neon pink heeled boot. He leans down to pull on the other one, before Vincent does that for him, too. He might be reluctant, but he's not a child. He can do things he doesn't like. And if this is what he needs to do to prove to Vincent that he can belong in Vincent's world, well. He'd do quite a lot to avoid Vincent's judgement.

Vincent straps on the sparkly golden heels. The leather of the boots comes up to his knees, covering the white leggings he's wearing. Edwin doesn't know how they are still squeaky clean, especially since it rained in the morning and Vincent must have walked from the bus stop. With the heeled boots on, Vincent truly towers over Edwin now. He holds out a hand.

"Come on, pumpkin. Impress me. I want to see you strut like a runway model." He pulls Edwin up and Edwin wobbles, trying to find his balance. His muscles tense up, and when he takes a step back, he almost falls. Vincent grabs his elbow, holding him steady. "Not too fast. Straight back. You need to find your centre of gravity before I let you walk."

Edwin looks down at Vincent's hand on his arm, embarrassment creeping up his cheeks. Shoes are shoes, even if they're neon pink heeled boots. He can walk. Vincent doesn't need to let him, as if he is a baby, taking his first steps. He's not impressing Vincent either, like this. Vincent wants him to be confident, to be part of his world.

He tries to step around the coffee table and promptly needs to reach for the arm rest of the couch when he almost twists his ankle. "Careful, darling," Vincent chastises.

Edwin sits down heavily and puts his feet flat on the floor. Well, not flat because he's wearing fucking heels, but his soles are pointing down and not to the side. He looks up at Vincent, standing there tall and confident and elegant, not wobbling in his much higher — and thinner — heels. Edwin's boots have a blocked heel, almost as broad as the shoe itself, whereas Vincent's heels taper down to a narrow point.

"When do you even wear these?" he asks. "Do you go out like that?"

"I don't wear them on the street, if that's what you're asking, darling. They're too expensive to be ruined by dirt. But I wear them for dancing, for fun."

"You dance in those," Edwin says incredulously. "And you don't fall."

"Sure." Vincent darts backwards a few steps, never stumbling or hesitating. He pirouettes in the open space and curtsies. "Your turn, darling." He smirks and holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. "Just walk over here."

"Just," Edwin mumbles under his breath. He pushes himself upright and flails a little with his arms, reaching for support in the air, because he misjudged how hard he could push, when his heels are higher than his toes. This is how it used to feel to be in Vincent's vicinity, except he's literally unsteady now. Literally and figuratively because the anxiety churns away in his stomach. He doesn't want to fall. He doesn't want to wear these. But he's going to do it because that's what Vincent wants and he wants Vincent to like him. To respect him, to see him as an equal, someone who can be the right partner for him. Someone who is not ruled by his prejudices.

He takes a step and his foot lands heavily. He wobbles and his muscles tremble, but he doesn't fall. He glances up at Vincent, who is grinning. He claps a hand in front of his mouth when he catches Edwin looking. It stings. He doesn't want Vincent to laugh at him. Vincent is not saying anything, he's not doing anything wrong, but it stings anyway.

He's going to do this. He takes another small step and he's still standing. He doesn't even wobble. He pushes his toes down, tests the sole of the shoe supporting his weight when he shifts between his legs. It bolsters him and with a few quick steps, he's in front of Vincent and he can hold on to his shoulders. He tilts up his head to squint at Vincent's face. I did it, he thinks. Are you happy now?

Vincent pecks his lips and wraps his arms around Edwin's waist. "Well done, darling." He kisses Edwin again, deeper this time, and some of Edwin's tension leaks out of his muscles. When Vincent leans back, he studies Edwin's face. "So on a scale of 'torture' to 'get these things off me', how awful was it?"

"I don't think heels are for me." Edwin glances down at his feet. More than the clothes, the boots are glaringly, ostentatiously feminine. He hates it. It feels like an itch, something that shouldn't be there. He feels wrong, when he looks like this. Off. Is this how Vincent would feel if he tried to look more masculine? Less flamboyantly feminine?

"Always so diplomatic, darling. Don't lie. You won't hurt my feelings."

It sparks a smouldering irritation. What does Vincent want from him? Should he comply with Vincent's ridiculous requests and try all these feminine things or does Vincent want him to complain, to admit he's a bigot and Vincent might as well break up with him now? Vincent might be able to pull off whatever he wants because he doesn't care about anyone's opinion. He is already obviously, visibly gay; he can be over the top if he wants. Edwin isn't like that. He doesn't want to be in the spotlight, he doesn't want to provoke people.

Edwin takes a step back, out of Vincent's embrace. "Did you like your present for yourself?" It sounds insincere even to his own ears.

"Absolutely," Vincent states, holding Edwin's gaze. "You're hot when you try things outside your comfort zone. Those pants are not ideal, but I bet your legs would look fantastic if you wore those boots with something more form-fitting."

"I would have dressed better if you'd told me you were coming over."

"I know, I know, darling. That was not an accusation. It's the prize I pay for my surprise. Just accept that you look hot and I would absolutely be in favour of christening your bed. Possibly while you keep those heels on."

"Vincent."

"Too much? I can be patient until you're ready." Vincent stalks forward until they're standing nose to nose again. "So, what would you like as a present for indulging me?"

Edwin looks up at the flecks of darker brown in Vincent's eyes. He painted his eyelids indigo. Edwin wants to kiss him again, take him to bed. He wants Vincent to keep complimenting him. To burn out this itch in the heat and friction of bodies, in bruises and teeth on Vincent's skin. He wants them to be just men in a bed, where it doesn't matter how feminine Vincent is, how feminine Edwin is not, where there is no acceptance, no discrimination. Just two men, who could be the same kind of person, who are compatible. "Is that why you got me these, because you think I look hot if I'm more feminine?"

Vincent glides the tips of his fingers down Edwin's back, until he clutches Edwin's butt. "One of the reasons. I also like when you let me push you a little. You make it too easy for me, darling." He nips Edwin's bottom lip, traces his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. "Don't you feel hot like this?"

"I feel like I'm playing a role." He's playing at being confident, at being the kind of person who wants to stand out. "How do you feel ... normal, when you wear something like that?" He gestures at Vincent's glittery boots, or tries to, because he's afraid he will lose his balance if he leans too far back in the heels he's still wearing.

"I don't need to feel normal, sweetheart; I need to feel like myself. I want to have fun with how I look and dress." Fun. Edwin turns that over in his head. Clothes have never been fun to him. They're a necessity. But they are fun to Vincent. Yet, they are not only functional to him either, are they? If they were, it wouldn't matter what he wore, as long as it served the purpose of covering up his skin, keeping him warm. But it matters, what he wears. He, too, needs to feel like himself.

"Are masculine clothes not fun? Because they're not ... so showy."

"Maybe. But this is more fun to me, and why should I deprive myself? This feels right for me."

"And you would be playing a role if you tried to look more like me."

"You got it, darling." Vincent smiles and Edwin's thumb catches in the corner of Vincent's mouth when rubbing his jaw. Vincent's tongue flicks out and Edwin swats at him, before he moves his hand to the back of Vincent's head and kisses him. He's going to get these boots off as soon as possible, but for a kiss, he'll keep them on a little longer.