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It’s still morning, just barely, when Rain wakes up. He and Dewdrop were out late yesterday, only making it back to Rain’s dorm room — in name, at least, as they may as well be interchangeable at this point — sometime past midnight, giggling as they bumped into each other in dim lamplight with echoes of alcohol still in their veins.
Dew isn’t here now, though. He can’t be far; despite consistently waking up first, he never leaves him for long unless there’s something else he needs to do — and there’s nothing that needs to be done today. Sunlight streams through the window and casts a layer of warmth over the bed, adding to the pile of blankets already there. Rain pulls them around himself and lets his eyelids slide closed again.
Sure enough, Dew walks through the door just a few minutes later with a steaming cup of coffee. “Morning,” he says. “If I knew you were awake I would have brought you one too.”
Rain gives him his biggest, saddest eyes.
“Say no more.” Dew pivots and heads back the way he came.
He sets his coffee down as he walks past the dresser. He pauses. Like a hawk, keen-eyed and always interested in something novel, he hones in the white-gray plastic shipping pouch there, where it’s been since Rain picked it up from the mail two days ago — he hasn’t worked up the courage to touch it since then.
Rain’s heart leaps to his throat as he scrambles out of bed. “Wait—” he squeaks out, chest tight.
“Is it something secret?” Dew coos with a lighthearted lilt.
Dew is never cruel. He loves to tease but hates to bully, a distinction that lends itself to a highly observant sort of dance in which he’s ready to surrender at any moment. He would stop this line of questioning in its tracks if Rain asked him to.
Rain struggles to find an answer that feels both tolerable and truthful. “Well, it was, sort of...”
Dew starts to tear the plastic, tunneling a little hole with his index fingers and stretching it wider, watching Rain’s face as he does it. Any real sign of hesitation from Rain would stop him — he would put the package down without another word.
Some primal instinct of self-preservation inside Rain’s core is screaming at him to react, to say something, to grab the package and run away, but he just stands and watches as Dew keeps tearing the plastic until the hole in it is wide enough to dump out the contents onto the surface of the dresser. What comes out is something deep blue and lacy.
They both stare at it in silence.
Dew speaks up first. “Is it for you, or...?”
Rain nods. His voice comes out quiet. “For me.”
Dew picks up one piece of folded fabric and holds it up, allowing it to assume its actual shape, that of a sheer bralette with a plunging neckline, two triangular cups, satin straps, and a wide band.
Rain searches for words, something to absolve himself of the churning judgments inside him. “Maybe it’s too... much,” he says.
Dew shakes his head. “I like it.”
Rain looks up at Dew, who tilts his head inquisitively.
He holds the bralette up in front of Rain, lining it up with his chest. “I think it’ll look good on you.”
Rain feels his face heat up, no doubt reddening with an intensity that rivals the blue of the garment in question.
Dew folds it neatly in half. He takes the other item from the package — still folded, but clearly a matching pair of panties, the distinctive arch of the leg opening visible — and offers them both to Rain.
Rain takes the bundle of fabric. He stares at it. His hand holding it feels like it doesn’t belong to him.
“Go on,” Dew says.
It takes a moment for Rain to understand what Dew is suggesting. “Oh.”
Dew raises an eyebrow.
“I’m going to...” Rain gestures toward the ensuite bathroom.
“I’ll be here,” Dew says.
The bathroom door shuts with a clunk, the faithful latching of antique hardware that may be as old as the abbey itself. Rain is alone with his purchase, clutched as a formless blob in one hand. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but really, could it have gone any other way? He was supposed to bring this up himself, to explain his intention. The courage to do so feels impossibly distant. This is the only way forward.
He starts with the panties — they feel like the easier of the two, somehow. He slides off his sweatpants and then his underwear, tossing them aside on the bathroom floor, moving quickly before he loses his nerve. He steps into the panties without allowing himself to think about it and pulls them on, then adjusts the hems here and there until the meager amount of fabric has everything covered comfortably.
He looks at himself in the mirror, brushing his hair away from his face. The new garment is peeking out between his oversized t-shirt and his bare thighs. He lifts the hem of his shirt, observing. The lace waistband arches along his hip bone and dips slightly into a gentle v-shape at the midline of his body. He turns a bit to the side, then forward again.
Without really thinking, he gathers the back of the shirt in a fist behind him, pulling it tight around his abdomen. The sight of this in the mirror, his tapered waist above an exposed stripe of his abdomen, and the lace panties below that, triggers a jolt of something like surprise, or shock, a white-hot bolt of adrenaline. He drops his shirt and brings his hands to his face, covering his mouth like he just said something he shouldn’t have in a silent conversation with himself.
But he can’t stop now. He turns away from the mirror before pulling his shirt over his head and discarding it in the same pile as his other clothes. It feels like letting go of a lifeline — he’s floating away, untethered.
The bralette is simple and elastic, without any clasps or fasteners. Rain pulls it over his head. It’s tight, which, while expected, makes it awkward to maneuver into, and makes him feel as if he’s suddenly forgotten the basics of dressing himself. Eventually, after much arranging, the band is around his chest and the straps are over his shoulders.
Not ready to see himself in the mirror yet, he looks down at on his torso. The bralette appears much more sheer than it did before he put it on, especially on the band, where the lace is hugging his ribcage snug enough to stretch. Even the cup, which is a little loose, fabric draping over itself slightly in the middle, is translucent enough for his nipples to show through, something he doesn’t remember seeing in the product photo online.
He runs his hand over the band, feeling the ridges of the lace, then over one cup, letting the fabric pull taut. He lets the details soak in, the clothing and his body underneath. The imperfections — yes, he sees them that way, but they’re also proof that this is real, without image manipulation or behind-the-scenes magic. What was once just a photo, words on a website, has come to life because he chose for it to. This is the payoff of indecision, fear, and taking a step forward. It’s a surreal joy, like something clicking into place, a key turning in a lock deep within his subconscious.
A gentle knock at the door feels like the loudest sound in the world. Rain freezes in place.
Dew’s voice filters through the gaps around the heavy wood of the door. “You okay?”
“I— yes,” Rain stammers.
“Sorry if I took it too far.”
Rain opens the door a sliver and peeks out. Dew is standing there with a sheepish look on his face, appearing genuinely apologetic about the whole situation.
“Hi,” Dew says, like they weren’t just talking to each other moments ago.
Rain grabs Dew by the arm and pulls him into the bathroom, opening the door just enough that he can get through. He closes the door behind him as soon as he’s inside.
They both stand facing the mirror, eyes connecting through the reflection.
“You look beautiful.”
Rain feels his face heat up even more. “You’re just saying that,” he deflects. Dew is giving him what he imagines he wants to hear, trying to play into what he thinks is just a fantasy — maybe it really is just a fantasy.
“Of course not.” Dew loops a firm hand around his waist and pulls him closer. Their hips bump together, lace against the slippery-smooth fabric of Dew’s track pants.
He circles around in front of him, between him and the sink. Rain can see himself in the mirror still, partially eclipsed by Dew’s smaller form. He looks away, off to the side, locking eyes with a hand towel on the wall. Even then, he can see his own body in his peripheral vision, haunting him like a mirage.
Dew places his hands on Rain’s hips. The heat of his palms sinks in as he drags them upward, slowly, over his ribs, over the band of the bralette, until he holds his chest in two cupped hands. He presses his fingers in, a gentle squeeze of the firm flesh there — more than Rain thought he had, until he saw it gathered this way, felt it, reframed his perception.
“Is this good?” Dew brushes one thumb over his nipple, then the opposite one. Rain suppresses a shiver.
“Yes,” Rain whispers.
“I want to know what you want.” He steps forward, pressing their bodies together. The fabric of his worn t-shirt is soft against Rain’s stomach.
Dew is looking up at him, but Rain can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “I don’t really know what I want.”
Dew hums. He presses a gentle kiss to Rain’s jawline, skin placed in the foreground as his face is tipped away. “Do you like it when I tell you you’re pretty?”
Rain nods. The hot flush in his cheeks spreads down, past the point Dew’s lips touched, oozes into his neck.
“Is there anything else?”
Rain stills. There is, of course, something else, a larger concept. It’s something he’s been telling himself he doesn’t understand yet, but more and more it’s starting to seem like that’s not the real issue. Maybe it’s obvious what he wants, so obvious even Dew can see it. Maybe the bigger problem is that he’s refusing to look.
“When you bought this” — Dew drags his thumbs over Rain’s chest again, pressing the lace into his skin — “is this what you were envisioning?”
Rain’s mouth goes dry. “Well, I...”
“That’s okay. Some other time.”
The relief that washes over Rain’s body is tinged with something else — not quite disappointment, some small sadness in defiance of the way out he was desperately hoping for. He doesn’t have to look yet, but now more than ever he’s sure that he will.