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Robin’s mom bought her a dress to wear to prom.
There’s nothing wrong with it. Considerably, it’s a pretty little thing. A baby teal color. Made of a silky, satin material. Thin spaghetti straps and hemmed to mid-calf. It fits to her frame the way it’s supposed to—hugging any curves, shaping her breasts, that sort of thing. But it’s not Robin. Nothing about it screams: Robin Buckley!
So, her and Steve hatched a plan. She’d wear it out of her house, let her mom take all the hideously awkward photos she wants, and then she’d walk out to the driveway where Steve was waiting in his car. Her parents knew they weren’t going as a couple, thank god. He was the chauffeur for the night, so they thought. But he knew what he was doing.
He drove them back to his house. Lead her up the stairs to his bedroom. Rummaged around his closet, butt in the air and head buried between hanging outfits. And from the back of his closet, a little dusty and not well ironed, he brandished a fully black tuxedo. Well, with a white dress shirt, but a black cummerbund to match. There was a sad little black bowtie hanging limp from the collar. Though, it seemed perfect to Robin—as her eyes lit up and she could only grin at him, wide as she possibly could, all her teeth and the very little amount of lipstick she was wearing shiny in the light.
The dress was left at his house. She went back downstairs. Was picked up by Nancy and Vickie and a few other girlfriends that they mutually shared.
And now Steve is left to his own devices.
He could turn in for the night. Could just take a relaxing bubble bath, get caught up on some reruns, maybe try a couple more chapters of The Hobbit. However, when he returns to his room, he can’t help the way his eyes drift to the dress still laid out on his mattress. A pair of solid white stilettos sat at the opening to underneath his bed. A small choker-like pearl necklace laying softly just above the neckline of the dress. And another accessory, two lacy white gloves, long enough to go to the elbows.
A sudden urge of temptation runs rapid through him. He’s not sure he could even fit into the dress, considering he and Robin have drastically different shaped figures. But she had said, pretty loudly, too, “Thank goodness you’ve got a narrow torso, Steve. I don’t think this suit would fit otherwise.” And she had walked right out of his ensuite, the tuxedo ensemble fitting perfectly to her body. He had to admit, if he were a girl, he’d probably would be falling onto his ass at the sight of her. If he were a girl, they’d still be best friends, but damnit that wouldn’t stop girl version of him from wanting to fall in love.
So, yeah, he’s not sure if he could fit into the dress. But he’ll try anything once.
He quickly closes and locks his bedroom door. Turns on only his more ambient lights: the floor lamp, the one on his desk, and the overhead in the bathroom. Strips down to just his boxers—plaid pajama pants and a worn out Queen t-shirt tossed onto the back of his desk chair. And then he figures he’ll start with the actual dress. That’s what girls usually would put on first, right? It’s the last thing that’s taken off before getting in bed, he thinks.
There’s a zipper on the back of the dress. It’s dainty and cold like metal, though it’s most certainly made of some half-plastic material. He gently tugs it down as far as it’ll possibly go, just above the butt, it seems. And then he steps his right leg in first. Foot pointed down, sharp like a doll’s foot; repeats with the other. And slithers it up his legs. Shimmying from side to side, grunting with exertion, tugging at the back to get it over his bottom. Which—Huh, go figure—he never knew he had that much to work with at the back. The rest of the dress is a breeze after that.
It doesn’t zip completely because he can’t reach, but he thinks that if he had Robin here still, she’d be able to get him all squared away. The chest sits awkwardly because he doesn’t have the actual boob-age to fill it up. But otherwise, it’s a nice fit to his suddenly realized trim waist. He stands in front of his bathroom mirror, ogling, rotating himself from side to side.
“You are narrow, Harrington,” he says aloud, “narrow, but pretty.” He plucks at the skirt, poofing it up with the air, and watching it flow back down. Softly. So soft. Like a cloud. The color of the dress doesn’t really compliment his skin tone, he might be a little darker than who this dress is meant for—it kind of washes him out. It’s a little hard to breathe in it, doesn’t think he’d be able to sit down it. And it doesn’t really look complete. Until, he remembers the accessories.
Immediately, he goes back into his bedroom and steps into the heels. Latches the necklace around his neck—struggling with that tiny clasp, fingertips aching from having to squeeze the mechanism over and over again to get it to catch. And slips the gloves up as far as they’ll go. The fabric of the gloves is sort of stretchy, though not by much, so it strains against his forearms. He’s got more muscle there than Robin, so that makes sense. And when he feels pretty dolled up, he finds himself back in front of the bathroom mirror.
Staring at himself is an odd thing. He’s not unhappy at all by how he looks. In fact, with the whole entourage, the outfit sort of…suits him. He understands completely why Robin wouldn’t wear this, it just isn’t her. But…If he were a girl, he could see that version of himself making this a repeat outfit. Could see himself—or, would it be herself?—herself wear this for elegant dinners and after parties and all the dances in the world.
Could see herself falling in love with outfits just like it. Fall in love with all those poofy dresses with the big sleeves. And the nylon tights that compliment the color of the dress fabric perfectly. See herself falling in love with necklaces and earrings and high heels, much like he’s done with all of his mother’s things.
And that’s another image. Sitting in his parents’ bedroom. On the edge of the mattress as his mom sits at her vanity. Painting on foundation and curling her eyelashes. Penciling in her lipstick precisely with the blunt tip of whatever color stick she found fitting for the occasion. Filing down her long, well manicured, not-a-chip-in-sight nails. The days they kept secrets from Steve’s dad, when his mom would paint his fingernails with the clear top coat she used. He always wanted the mauve color or the bright hot car red, but he could always settle with the clear coat—how it caught every ray of light in any space he exhibited, the way the cold polish felt on his bare nails, sitting down with his mom and waiting for their paint to dry.
He quite liked that. Would still like that, if that was something somebody offered him. Maybe it’s something Robin would like to do. He’s sure she wouldn’t mind, considering she’s currently wearing his suit in the first place.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the small lipstick tube that Robin had used earlier. He picks it up, cradling it in his hands. Flips it over to read the bottom of the tube: ‘Revlon Coral Vanilla.’ Taking the lid off, he inspects the color. It’s a soft, almost muted pink. But just bright enough that it’ll be noticeable—even the slightest. He, without another thought, swipes the nub of the lipstick over his lips. It’s a messy job, not completely in the lines. He’ll have to go back with blotting paper or whatever product remover his mom uses if he wants it to be completely perfect. But it’s satisfying to see his face in the mirror—natural eyelashes and giddy eyes, the normal flush he has to his cheeks, and that little bit of added color to his lips.
He pops his lips, just like he saw his mom and Nancy and Robin do at some point. Smearing the color to all the little gaps he missed. And then he smiles at himself. Falling into the little wet sound the corners of his mouth make from the makeup. Ogling how his teeth look whiter and shinier with the color around them. It’s a good color, all things considered. He makes a mental note to ask if Robin could pick up another tube. He’ll make an excuse if he has to: “So that there’s an extra one in my car if you need,” that’s what he’ll say.
She’ll agree to it, he’s sure. Though there’s a minor tremor of nervousness that she’d refuse, but knowing who she is—the fact, again, that she’s wearing his suit to her high school prom—Robin should be on board.
If she wanted to merge brains at one point, maybe she’ll want to merge fashion tips and tricks, too. Maybe she’ll want to merge her girlhood with his lack of.
Maybe she’ll be there as he discovers new parts of himself. He wants her to hold his hand. Paint his nails. Wants help with zipping up this damn dress. Wants to keep it, too.
It’s another hour before she’s dropped back off at his house. Vickie and Nancy need to go back to their respective places. So, it’s just Robin that comes inside. He meets her halfway down the stairs, still in the dress and the heels and the necklace.
Though, in the time it took her to get back, he did have a go at his mom’s curling iron. He knows how it works. Knows how to twist and hold it in his hair. The curls don’t sit right, though. The length of his hair currently isn’t right for the style he had in mind, but it’s okay, he reasons. Maybe he’ll try again.
Robin closes the door behind her and shucks the shoes, that she took from Steve, in the corner by the front door. And then she turns around. All at once, her mouth drops open and her eyes comically widen.
He brushes down the front of the dress and then gestures with his hands in a little ta-da! gesture. “I might have…uh…may have gotten bored earlier. Maybe I was curious?” He offers instead of a greeting. But she doesn’t say anything yet, so he carefully maneuvers down the rest of the steps. Nervously, he giggles. “Who knew that high heels would be this hard to walk in?” Steve says, “they’re feet killers, too. Kinda rough, aren’t they?”
“Wow,” Robin finally breathes. She places a hand over where her heart is. Meets him at the bottom of the stairs, takes his wrists in her hands, and twirls him around in one slow circle. “Wow, Stevie,” she murmurs, “you look…”
When they’re face to face again, he tries hard to avoid her eye contact. Shoving his line of sight sidelong, saving grace. “How do I look?” he meekly asks, “do I look weird?”
“No!” Robin admonishes. “Steve…this dress was meant for you! Wait, hold on.” She turns him around again. This time, he’s looking up his staircase, lets her work with whatever she’s doing. Though, he hears it. Ziiippp. And then she runs her hands gently down his back, brushing and flattening whatever misshapes popped up in the fabric from not being completely flat. He faces her again. Her hands on his biceps, squeezing his muscle with the lightest of force. Eyes still tracking all that is him. “The gloves could probably be a little bit bigger,” she murmurs, “but…wow. You wear this better than I could’ve ever!”
“You really think so?” Steve shyly asks.
Her head bobbles on her neck. “Yes! One hundred, one thousand, one million percent! How do you feel about it?”
“Am I allowed to be honest?”
“Steve, just tell me, you dingus. I can see you trying to hide a smile.” How she just knows his expressions, he’ll never fully understand. But she mirrors whatever must be plastered on his face. A soft, pleasantly proud, secretly serene smile.
“I really like it,” he whispers, “like so much that I want to wear it all the time.” He flexes his fingers in the gloves. Keeps his line of sight away still, even as Robin places her palms on either side of his face. Making their expressions head on with each other. He takes a slow, deep breath. “And,” he continues softly, “and I…I think I want it to mean more than just Steve Harrington in a dress. More than just ‘man in a dress.’”
She hums. Smile still there. Hands on his face, thumbs tickling under his eyes. “What do you want it to mean?”
He finally looks to her at that. “Maybe…maybe like I’m a girl, too? Or…well, like I’m a girl, but like Nancy is a girl. Like skirts and dresses and blouses, but then jeans and t-shirts on occasion, when I want them. I don’t know—I don’t think I’m making sense. And I don’t know what I want exactly, but I’m still Steve right now and I don’t know what else I’m feeling I”—
“Hey,” Robin calls softly, squishing his cheeks. Her eyes implore into him. He always thought she had sharpshooter, piercing blue eyes. But something about them right now is soft like the color of his dress. Fresh and new. It’s like being looked at for the first time. “Steve, this doesn’t have to mean anything yet. It doesn’t have to mean anything ever, if you want it that way. You can just be what you want and also wear a dress.” She blows out a quiet breath. “You can also just be what you want and wear my lipstick, you thief.”
They snicker at that. Any bit of nerves he previously had dissolve in front of her. This is their world right now. This is their air and their jokes and their clothes, mismatched on each other’s bodies. And yet…yet, they’re smiling at each other and that means something, too, he supposes.
He doesn’t think he’s been giddy like this in years.
“It’s a nice lipstick shade,” he defends softly, “and it compliments the dress, don’t you think?”
“First time wearing a dress and you’re already coordinating makeup to your outfit? Steve, I’m impressed. But, yes. Yes, dingus, the lipstick is nice and works with the whole ensemble you’ve got.” Her hands brush down the sides of his neck, fingers plucking at the ends of his hair. The curls just barely hanging on. “We should have a girl’s day, if you want. You should let me show you how to get a perfect curl in your hair and put makeup on that pretty face of yours.”
Steve snorts. “It’s just a face, Bobbin.”
“Yeah, but it’s a happy face. You’re happy about all of this and I plan to keep it that way.”
“Can you get me a lipstick like yours? Take it slow?”
“Whatever you want, Stevie,” she promises, whispering. “You’re my best friend and you deserve to be happy. Do you want to keep the dress? I’ll just tell my mom that I spilled punch on it and had to…Oh, I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”
He nods. Because, yeah, duh—of course. “You can keep the suit and loafers, too. They were collecting dust otherwise.”
“Yes!” Robin exclaims, pumping her fists, “of course I want that damn suit! Dude, Vickie kissed me while I was wearing it!”
Steve smirks and laughs brightly from his chest. It’s a good sound coming out of him, equal to that of the first break of sun in grey clouds. “I’ve got some ice cream and cash for pizza. You wanna spend the night? I’ll help you craft a lie for your mom.”
“Yesss…and we can get you out of those heels. Those bitches have got to hurt.”
He groans, “Ugh, yes! I don’t know how you girls do it.”
“Oh, Stevie, I don’t. But you’re rocking them pretty well so far. Now, up the stairs you go. I’ve got all kinds of prom stories to tell you.”
And as he trudges up the steps, laughing at every little joke that spills from his best friend’s lips, he thinks that this is the best first step towards a happier life.