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...and immediately knows it’s a bad idea. Too large, for one thing, slipping down and settling crooked against his possibly crooked hips. Too large, obviously, in the front, where the thick whaleboned satin is designed to fit snugly around a woman’s breasts, which he obviously does not have. Not sure why, but he assumed that the chest part would flatten out once he did up the hooks in front. Now it’s obvious that’s not going to happen, not even if Lucius were to cinch it in the back. The loose lacings hang down against the backs of his thighs, and his face and hands sting with humiliation.
“No.”
Lucius starts demanding entrance. “Are you ready? Can I come in?”
“No,” Severus says, loud. “No, it’s… not right. Don’t come in.”
“What? Come on, let me in, I want to see.” Laughter in his too-loud voice and Severus wants to tell him to shut up; stop treating the door like it's a bad Floo connection you have to shout through to be heard.
Lucius starts to push the door open anyway, Severus leans back against the door in panic, to keep it shut as he tries to get the corset off, pushing franticly at the tiny hook-and-eye closures that evade his fingers. His numb, clumsy, stupid fingers.
“What on earth is the matter?” Lucius presses the door three sharp times in succession. Severus gouges the underside of his thumbnail on a hook as his torso smacks back against the thumping door.
This is what Severus had imagined: That the corset would be grey with black piping. That it would fit him perfectly everywhere, like a tuxedo vest, but tight. That the lacing would be geometric and gorgeous and outline a deep arc in the small of his back. That Lucius would stand behind him and tighten the lacings slowly, tugging firmly but gently at each set of grommets until it was snug all over. That it would hold him. Hold him! God!
Not imagined: this stupid slinky black satin thing that made him look like he was crossdressing as some kind of wannabe dominatrix. Not expected: to look like the kind of person his grandmother would call a harlot. And not even a real harlot—just a weird, scrawny man attempting to look like a harlot! How had this seemed so simple and ended up so terrible and perverted?
Nothing’s the matter you little fuck. The dressing room blurs wet-hot around him and he stumbles forward, trying to escape further into the tiny room, permitting his boyfriend to fall in.
“Oh no,” Lucius says, skipping serious and going straight to devastated. “Oh, darling.” He reaches for Severus’ face.
Severus turns away, trying to look purposeful and occupied with refolding his shirt while he ignores the fact that he can’t get the damn thing off and is inwardly crumpling. Lucius’ stupid voice….
“There will be one that fits. They make bespoke ones!” Lucius says with false brightness.
Oh you mean the five-thousand dollar custom ones? The ones for brides ones?
“Come here.” Lucius holds his hand out to Severus and the moment he turns, grabs the gaping front of the corset and pulls their chests together. Working efficiently, with six sharp tugs he frees the hooks from their eyes and slips the satin from around Severus’ back. Severus looks everywhere but his face.
“Whatever, Malf. It was just a stupid idea. I don’t even care.” He pulls the corset from Lucius’ hands, folds it into a warped rectangle. Drops it onto the dressing room’s granite bench, then pulls on his button-down and cloak. He is the normal one of them, obviously. Not like Lucius with his jokey Halloween makeup and his costume balls and his Muggle dive-bar tourism and his God-knows-what-else.
Lucius, who in his imagination rested his hands so gently against Severus’ whalebone ribs.
A technique Severus learned long ago: a quick back-and-forth swipe with his third knuckle, so he might as easily be rubbing his nose. Then, imperceptibly, down to the seam of his trousers to wipe the water away.