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Layla dragged Steven into the shop with her before they went home, and was half listening to him chatting just behind her, and half listlessly looking through clothes, trailing her fingers along the rows of neatly hung jackets and answering whenever Steven paused for breath, at the very least with an encouraging noise.
It was after fumbling for a label demanded her whole attention for a moment, that she realised Steven had gone quiet. She frowned, looking up from the rack she was perusing, and the ever so slight stirrings of panic that had started to bloom in her chest ceased when she saw that he was still there, right behind her, just the other side of a circular rack of shirts. Toying with the hangers; dragging one hook back and forth along the rail with a grating squeak, and paying no attention to it. Paying no attention to her either.
His gaze was across the store, on a model stood on a plinth. One of the vaguely creepy sleek white things with no face and just the barest hint of a nose, posed dynamically with a hand on one hip and the other arm and leg extended just enough to show off the line of the clothes it was dressed in: a plain white shirt with billowing sleeves, and a full sweeping skirt. Knee length and dark green, fastened up the side with three tanned buttons.
Another rough squeak of a sliding clothes hangar.
“Steven?”
He jumped - guiltily, she thought confusedly, going by the flash of his eyes, though he had done nothing wrong. Plenty of people stared into space on a shopping trip. Especially those who did not want to be on said trip in the first place.
What made her pause, and continue to consider him over his bowed head, is the way he turned away. The speed of it. The bowed head in fact, as he seemed to throw himself into the task of rifling through the shirts he’d been toying with, but so fast there was not a chance he was actually looking at anything. The slight red flush to him.
The way he glanced back under his lashes, across the shop floor, once or twice.
Layla was not sure what was going on, but she wanted to find out. Original purpose of the detour into the store abandoned, as flippantly as she could manage she announced that she was done with this section, and flounced confidently over to where the model was placed, looking through a rack nearby without looking at it at all. Dresses, perhaps. From her periphery she saw Steven trail after her, hands balled into the pockets of his jacket. Eyes darting hesitantly between her and the model. She made sure to avert her eyes to the riot of pattern under her nose every time he glanced her way, so he did not catch her looking. One of his shoelaces had come undone.
She feigned interest in the clothes under her hands harder.
Steven went back to looking at the model. A slight shuffle of his feet, and he lifted one hand from his pocket. Layla stilled entirely, as if it would render her invisible. The neck of the dress in front of her slipped slowly free, and the garment fell softly to the floor in a heap.
Reaching out, Steven put gentle fingertips to the skirt. A little rub of the fabric between his fingertips first. Then it turned to a light brush of his palm down the sweep of the supple material; the ripple created by the way the material hung.
Layla thought she had it now.
“You like that?”
As usual, Steven overreacted. Snatched his hand back, eyes growing wide as he stumbled back and collided with a table of something or other soft and lemon yellow, sending everything sliding to the floor before he could catch it. Swearing a harried ‘Oh bollocking hell!’ under his breath he fumbled to pick it all up and shove it haphazardly back onto the table.
Layla helped. Readjusted the strap of her bag as she crouched down and picked the yellow garments up a lot less frantically than he was. He was very studiously not looking at her.
“It’s alright if you do,” she said, and he dropped the handful he’d just gathered, “like it, I mean.”
“What?” said Steven, laughing nervously, “no.” He was clutching a load of yellow close to his chest like a lifeline. “No I wasn’t – what are you doing?”
There was real panic in his voice as Layla went over to the rack the skirts were on, and started looking very carefully at labels, a tiny crease between her eyebrows as she squinted at each and every tag carefully. “Finding your size,” she murmured, slipping a couple off the rail, regarding them critically as she held them aloft, “one of these I think; you’ll have to try it on. Come on!”
She gave him no time to argue. Sometimes it was best that way. Sure enough, he blustered and stuttered but darted after her.
They reached the changing rooms and he continued to stammer as Layla talked to the changing room assistant, only stopping when he was addressed directly.
“You can’t bring all that in, Sir.”
He turned to the assistant at her weary statement, startled. “What?”
The woman was bored. She raised an eyebrow at his chest, and only then did he realise he was still holding an armful of stuff that he’d picked from the floor. “Oh!”
He dropped it all on instinct. The sales assistant sighed deeply. Layla stifled a smile. Tugged Steven along as he muttered ‘sorry.’
He fell into the curtain as she shoved him into a changing room, thrusting the skirts to his chest so he was forced to take them or let them fall. Backed up against the wall, hooks digging into his back, he stared silently and wide eyed. He’d stepped on his trailing lace.
She smiled at him, and settled herself down on the cushioned bench just outside the row of rooms to wait for him, adjusting her bag so it sat across her lap. “I’ll wait here so you can show me,” she said, and made the shooing of her hands as encouraging as she could manage.
For the longest moment, there was an impasse. Steven stood stock still, staring at her. She sat stock still, staring at him. The strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder and rested by her elbow. The lights were bright and white and bounced off numerous mirrors. She waited.
Steven swallowed. Then averted his eyes, and slid the curtain shut.
She grinned. Crossed her legs and sat back to wait.
There was the shuffling of shucked clothes, but it was worryingly quiet – especially because it was Steven. Who nattered like nobody’s business. Layla could see his shoes in the gap where the curtain did not quite meet the floor, so she could see when he was done, and stood facing the mirror. Continued to stand there, in silence, unmoving. He was wearing odd socks; little arcing sharks on one and mismatched stripes on the other. Above that, the bare skin of his legs, hair there brushed in all directions from changing.
“You ready?” Layla eventually called out, to prompt him. A shuffling of feet at her words. An awkward clearing of his throat. And then Steven dragged back the curtain more slowly than any man has dragged back a curtain in his life, bunching it up at his waist to hide himself as much as possible until eventually, he had to concede, and dropped it the rest of the way to one side. His eyes were on the floor to his left, nowhere near Layla. Flushed, he pulled his sleeves down over his hands.
“Oh wow!” said Layla, and he looked up. Surprised and…
Hopeful.
She meant what she said. Surprisingly, it did not clash with the shirt he was wearing that all but asked for things to clash with it. He looked good.
So she grinned, hair bouncing as she nodded, and twirled her finger in front of her. “Give us a spin!”
A moment of hesitation, and then Steven obliged, shuffling around in a tiny circle. The simple momentum of turning was just enough to make the bottom flare out a little, and as he came back round to face her Layla could see the pleased smile on his face.
He smoothed his hands down the fabric self-consciously, most likely wiping down sweaty palms but she didn’t have the heart to admonish him for it, and moved his hands high enough to stumble upon – she watched the flash of delight in his eyes as he found them - pockets. Immediately he shoved his hands in them as deep as they would go, and when she laughed, he looked up. Blinked at her cautiously. Let the smile dancing around the corner of his mouth grow.
“They don’t usually have pockets. You’re lucky.”
Spreading his hands inside the pockets he looked down and hummed. “Nifty. I can put emergency Werther’s Originals in here,” he said thoughtfully.
A slightly confused quirk of her brow before she decided not to question it. “Yeah, sure.”
“Yeah?” he’d been looking at himself in the mirror.
“Yeah.”
They left with the skirt.
A week later and Marc stumbled in absolute surprise over the feeling of swishy fabric tickling the backs of his knees and a chill than ran alarmingly all the way up his legs, almost tripping over his own feet. He blinked.
“Hey Marc,”
He looked up at Layla, standing with her hip cocked and watching him amusedly.
“Layla,” he said stupidly, then looked back down at himself, confusion resolving. He was wearing a skirt.
He gestured broadly at it. “This is Steven?”
“Mm-hm,” Layla nodded, then squinted a little, watching him rather intently.
Marc processed the situation. Layla continued to squint. “Is he not cold?”
It seemed to surprise a chuckle out of Layla, for the tinge of severity to her fell away, and she took his hand to get him moving. The sensation of wearing a skirt was unfamiliar and he knew he was walking weirdly, a frown of concentration on his face.
“Oh grow up you big baby,” said Layla lightly, “Steven manages it.”
With each step, he realised, a slight weight thudded against his thigh, and after grappling with an amount of slightly unwieldy fabric that reminded him of the suit’s cape, he found a pocket, and pulled out a small handful of gold foil.
“The fuck are these?”
“‘Werther’s Originals’ apparently,” said Layla dubiously, then: “old person sweets.”
They’re not old person sweets!
Steven was indignant in a window reflection when Marc met his eyes, but his shoulders hunched awkwardly as they regarded each other.
He’d started to say Er…, licking his lips, when Marc waved a hand at his (very cold) legs; nodded.
“Nice.”
“Oh.” His shoulders relaxed. “Cheers.”
“You guys coming?”
They both turned to look at Layla, tying up her hair as she waited. “Yeah yeah,” Marc grumbled, and trudged after her.
He’d only gone a little way when he was surprised a slight gust of wind, and with an entirely unexpected spike of panic automatically moved to try and pin the skirt down as flat as it would go. “This seems dangerous,” he muttered, a handful of fabric in each hand.
Layla laughed at him. So did Steven.