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Francis Crozier, househusband, reclines naked on satin sheets and pillows, with the recently rumpled top sheets from his shag session with James Fitzjames tossed down to the foot of their bed. His beloved emerges from the bedroom’s walk-in closet in a scoop-necked, sleeveless, micro-mini-hemmed dress. His hair is perfectly coiffed in tidy waves about his face, and his makeup has been tastefully and impeccably applied. He’s now nearly ready to begin his shift at the night club, but for his bare feet.
"How's this dress?"
“Lovely, James,” Francis says with an approving nod. “Cranberry red is definitely your colour.”
“Wait – Didn’t you say last week that forest green was my colour?”
Francis smiles. “Any colour, whenever you wear it, becomes your colour, James. You wear every colour well.”
“Ah, then you’ll love the new boots I’ll be wearing tonight!” James rushes back into the closet. “I bought several new pairs last week,” he calls out. “I wasn’t sure this pair would work with cranberry, but give it a look, Francis. Just a moment, though… they’re thigh high with back zippers, and it’s a job to get them on properly.”
“Thigh high boots? Mmm, sounds delightful.”
“Ready? Wait for it, Francis…. And… voilà!” James springs forth in a gleeful jump, landing on five-inch stiletto-heels before promptly twisting his right ankle and falling to the beige shag-carpeted floor. His freshly donned white – no, they’re more a pearlescent white – patent leather boots shimmer with hints of pink, blue, yellow, violet, and green as the overhead bedroom lights shine upon them during his descent.
James now lies on his back, grasping his injured ankle with both hands even as he cries out through his pain, “Do you like the boots, Francis?”
Francis bolts to his lover. “We need to get these off you quickly, before your ankle swells!”
“But do you like the boots?”
“Be still and relax, as you can, for this may be painful. Breathe, James.” He stretches James’ injured leg straight out and steadily lowers it to the floor.
James’ wails echo off the walls. “Careful, Francis...”
Francis tugs and pulls at the zipper as gently as he can, inch by inch, until the offending boot is loosened, peeled off of his lover’s leg, and tossed across the room. He hastily removes the remaining boot as quickly and naturally as if he – and not James - has been the one wearing such boots for years.
“Let’s get you back to bed, and then I’ll call the club.The Purple Narwhal's premier go-go dancer will not be performing tonight – and possibly not for several nights.”
“But I was just promoted! Tonight was to be my first night in an upper level cage, and after being at floor level for years! Special spotlights, Francis! My chance at better visibility for the patrons!”
“You will not be visible to anyone this evening – except to me. I’m sure they have several back-up dancers.”
“But I was so looking forward to wearing my new boots on that upper tier. I was thinking they’d look splendid under the spotlights. Did you see all the colours in the sheen of the leather? The rosy pink, the yellow, the sky blue, the lavender, and the mint green?”
“Indeed, I saw all those colours as you were falling directly to the floor. Yes, those boots will definitely look spectacular under the spotlights. But not tonight.”
James smiles. “You do like the boots, then?”
“Yes, Dearest. Now, up we go.” Francis helps him to struggle up and onto his one good foot. He keeps his arm firmly around James’ waist as they hobble together slowly to the bed and get him plopped down to the sheets.
“I’ll be off now to get you a bandage and make that phone call.” Francis dons a robe and heads towards the bathroom.
“Wait a minute, Francis! Wait! Come here first, please? Something I need to know…”
Francis obeys. He stands at the bedside, brow crinkled in confusion. “What is it?”
“White goes with everything, right?”
Francis chuckles. “Yes, Dearest – and it’s your colour.”
“So, you’re saying those boots go well with the cranberry red?”
“Yes, Dearest,” Francis answers, still amused.
“And… what about the colours in the boots?”
Francis places his palms gently against his lover’s cheeks, framing his face. “Yes, James. They’re all your colours. Every single one.”
“Good,” James says through a smile. ”Good.”
Francis gives his beloved a quick kiss on the lips, pats his cheeks, and heads off to tend to his tasks, wearing a fresh smile of his own. Oh, charming and inimitable James: even whilst in pain, he’s all vanity.
And Francis adores him for it.