Chapter Text
"I was wondering, you don't have to, course, but, would-would you show me what you bought?"
Panic rushed over John. Despite imagining what it would be to exist freely beside Paul, exposing all his secrets in a way that would leave him bare and fragile, those dreams never surpassed the border between the real world and fantasies.
"I mean," he shrugged, "you've already seen them when you had to clean the bed."
Because he did. John realised that after Paul's question, tried to imagine the whole situation -- him passed out after hours of crying, Paul having to rummage through every item to make sure the bed was ready -- laughable for the outsiders, unpleasant for participants.
"I didn't really pay any attention to it. You know how it is with me and fashion."
Well, that was true, if anything, John could be labelled as the chic one. His patience tested every time Paul declared old shirts with holes and missing sleeves as 'just barely worn out and ready for another 10 years'.
"Okay," John smiled fondly, reviving the memories. "I-I think I could show you, if you, if you are okay with that. ARE YOU?"
The stress caused him to shift backwards, to the awkward stage of puberty, because nothing could explain the unruly way his voice demonstrated itself -- oscillating between loud and hushed, raspy and smooth, high-pitched and, well, even more high-pitched.
Paul remained composed, holding the eye-contact as he gestured to the pile of clothes, folded neatly, of course, on the other side of the room.
"Very okay."
"Right-o, so, I just need to...." John straightened himself and hesitantly exited the bed, wobbly legs leading him to the source of his misery.
He eyed the stack warily, then turned to Paul with a look of uncertainty. "What the heck am I supposed to do now, like?"
Paul, every inch the professional adult, rushed to help.
"I could go to make another tea and read a book, perhaps? So you can change into something you'd like me to see and just call me whenever you are ready, yeah? If you feel like you don't want to do it, like you're not ready, that's alright, too."
In moments like those John truly sensed the emotional bond they shared, doubting he would be able to carry out the whole procedure under Paul's supervision.
He gave him a tiny nod, and breathed a little lighter upon seeing a hint of blush on Paul's face -- sometimes John's spiralling anxiety clouded his perception of others, making him forget they, too, could get swept by nervousness.
He listened as Paul's steps became more distant and began to dig through his purchasing. The first time required something extraordinary yet comfortable, therefore, all dresses were dismissed as low hanging fruit.
A burgundy skirt caught his attention, it was a classical A-line cut, sufficient for not showing off his tummy or thighs, somehow, after all those years he couldn't bring himself to stop scrutinizing his body.
He dug deeper till his hands found a cotton blouse adorned by a floral application. Looked pretty folkloric, Paul had inclined towards folkloric music lately, so that would be a nice twist...or not.
John tugged at the short sleeves, the only downside, as if the action would lengthen them, then added a chunky cardigan and headed to the bathroom.
This time, he felt as if he was watching everything from the corner of the room. Frankly, it was better that way, as John welcomed the disassociation as a form of distraction from a bunch of cruel movies in his head.
What if Paul regretted his decision as soon as he saw the result?
Nevertheless, John managed to put on lingerie, stockings (got it properly on on the first try, too), everything. He even repeated the action of coating his body in a scented lotion after the shower.
If he relied solely on his own judgment, it didn't look lousy, the blouse tucked in the skirt creating a nice silhouette, the materials floaty and not restricting or coarse.
He checked himself from every angle possible, took a deep breath and forced himself to peek to the short corridor.
Initially, John's plan consisted of the element of surprise, meaning he would walk all the way to the living room and presented himself to Paul.
His confidence defused significantly with each garment, and John was glad his nerves allowed him to croak a small "Paul".
Just as he was pondering if Paul did hear him, the man in question politely knocked on the door.
Under different conditions, the gesture would abet John to mock Paul's manners, but on that day he appreciated it and rushed to the other side of the room, frantically adjusting every tiny detail.
"Yes!"
His eyes were fixed on the way the handle moved, slowly revealing his boyfriend, and how casually Paul appeared as he strode to sit on the bed.
John couldn't bear the silence, especially when he Paul's eyes raked over his whole body, he COULD feel that as well as his cheeks growing hotter each minute.
"Well?? Are you going to say something?"
John flinched at his own tone, noticing how his hands rested against his hips, resembling a pissed housewife.
"Sorry, sorry, I-I didn't mean, didn't-"
The string of his incoherent apologies was interrupted by the sound of Paul's voice.
"No, no, I'm sorry, it's just...you do look great."
"Yeah?"
Doubt still interlocked John's thoughts, but he must admit the idea of Paul liking it sent a pleasant shiver down his spine -- as if someone patted a cat's head.
"Yeah, took my breath away, even."
John did not plan on giving up that easily. No matter how his heart fluttered at the compliment.
"Not like an ugly crone? Be honest, Paul."
"Like the most lovely, charming lad, you are" his boyfriend patted the spot next to him. "Now, could you come closer, please?"
Resembling a skittish animal, John inched a hair closer, then stopped in front of Paul.
"You don't have to go with that, I can change, I wouldn't mind, not aHH-"
John's tirade was cut short when Paul's dainty fingers wrapped around John's forearm, tenderly yanking him forward. John's mouth opened and closed for a couple more times as he processed the reality - he was seated on Paul's lap, the other man's hands securing him firmly, in WOMEN'S clothes. If it was a dream, John wished not to wake up.
A few minutes later he became aware of tears rolling down his cheek. Goddamnit.
He gingerly hid his face to the crook of Paul's neck, testing the waters, when no negative reaction followed, he dared to plant a fleeting kiss just above Paul's collar.
"So, you really like it?"
Paul only hummed in response, tracing individual flowers.
"I adore it." He chuckled next to John's ear, the sound warming his hear. "You smell nice, too," John could hear him sniff, his smaller nose buried into the tuft of auburn hair. "Like some fancy flowers."
"Roses." John just so-so suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.
"Roses then. Very nice." His fingers slipped down, tentatively toying with the skirt. "This is pretty, too, soft and shiny. Makes me look like a right boor, though."
John, pretty much sinking into another snooze, shot up at the last sentence.
"You are always good looking." He offered, relishing the way the corners of Paul's eyes wrinkled as he spared him a grin.
"I was hoping you would let me try on something. Not a skirt or dress, I don't think, don't suppose that's for me, but some nice shirt, hmm, could be lovely."
"Oh."
John had no idea what to do. He would lie if he said he hadn't dressed Paul in his head. Or anybody, really, there was a sketched collection for Martha from when he had flu. Dapper hats and everything.
"Nice shirt?' He enquired.
"Nice shirt," Paul confirmed.
In instance, John was up and alert, sprinting off and back with a colourful shirt. The cut resembling the one Paul wore, save for the balloon sleeves, only made of the material prone to be arranged as opposed to those stiff white collars. The colours weren't too flashy, if anything Paul's dark hair and huge eyes seemed to shine brighter.
He unfastened the first two buttons gracefully, rolled up the sleeves and turned to face John.
"Looks alright?"
The drought in John's mouth prevented him from uttering the right words to thank his precious boyfriend, but he crossed his fingers Paul would get the message through the tight hug and shower of kisses.
The rest of the day flew in a tempo more hectic than the morning had indicated. They had a very late breakfast, after which Paul focused on work-related papers while John organised their closet. When the last of the skirts hung, right next to Paul's tailored suits and his own jeans, to John it looked like it'd always been like that.
They went for a nice evening walk, Paul still flaunting the floral shirt his boyfriend picked up. For once ohn didn't mind the slacks he replaced the skirt with. Mainly because he kept on the shirt and sweater, but the fact the underwear stayed on, lacy and silky, like a secret he shared with Paul, contributed to his contentment.
When they finally snuck to the bed, a cloud of rose scent around them, John felt light. He knew it wasn't a permanent victory over his troubled mind, but, with Paul's breath tickling his nape; hands wrapped around his waist, another huge step didn't scare him that much.
He dreamt of a larva turning into a colourful butterfly, watched it spread its wings and flee, the frail moment of metamorphism. And in his sleep John sighed and drowsily interlocked their fingers.
