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The first time was a bad joke.
One of the lads had snuck a girl into his room over the weekend. As Andy told it, she’d apparently had to leave in a hurry and left a few things behind. Including most of her clothes.
Charles could never quite get behind the way his mates talked about their girls, all tits and arse and when they were finally gonna put out. But it sure was a laugh watching Andy try and fit his thick arse into this bird's abandoned little black skirt while he did an impression of her running across the lawn near starkers last Saturday night. Poor thing, really, but Charles was rolled over laughing anyway as Andy nearly fell on his face for the third time tripping over the half pulled up scrap of cloth.
Andy shot him a sour look from the floor. “Well, alright, Charlie. You think it’s so fucking funny? You got a scrawny arse, let’s see you put it on.”
“Nah, mate, I’m good thanks,” he tried to laugh him off, but then Rob and Jase got in on the bit and Charles figured he didn’t have much of a choice. The girl was a skinny thing, but fortunately Charles was too. He had to take his trousers off to get the zip to go up, but with only minimal wrangling, and more than a bit of ragging from the boys, he got the thing settled around his waist.
It looked… different. The short, pleated skirt did cover his boxers, but only just. His legs felt very naked. In this context, that didn’t seem like a great thing.
“Christ, Chaz, you shave your legs I might think you was a chick. You look a proper slag in that.”
“Oi, fuck off, Jase.” Charles pitched his tone to outraged hilarity to cover the spike of discomfort. “What do you know from girls anyway? When’s the last time one paid any attention to you, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah. You fuck right off. Just cuz you're a shit wingman,” Jase grumbled and shoved into his shoulder. Charles was glad of the opportunity to return the sentiment and set off a round of roughhousing that pulled everyone in. By the time things wound down, no one was paying any attention to Charles when he swapped skirt for trousers and stashed the little wisp of fabric in his own bag.
—
The second time was just an experiment.
Charles hadn’t thought it through when he snatched the skirt. He’d taken it off, it was in his hand already, seemed a waste for Andy to throw the girl’s clothes away like he planned. So Charles’ had just… taken it. Except now he had it. And now he had to confront what he was doing with it.
It was just a scrap of a thing. Black, short, with slightly scrunched pleats falling to just below the hem of his pants when he settled it low on his waist. He couldn’t quite figure why he was even doing this, standing in the middle of the locker rooms, freshly showered and wearing the little skirt he’d left mashed in the bottom of his backpack for weeks. But he was temporarily, completely alone after staying late at practice to run drills and avoid having to go home over winter recess for one more night. It didn’t seem like an opportunity worth wasting.
He hadn’t been able to get the idea out of his head, is all. He may have left the skirt to rot in his bag, but it refused to leave him. The thought kept popping up at inopportune moments, the memory of standing in that room with his mates, legs on full display, and wishing they hadn’t laughed. Wishing maybe they’d… yeah, no, not going there.
Though truthfully, Jase’d been a bit right. The skirt was proper short and he did look like a slag, which coming from Jase was even a backwards sort of compliment. But he didn’t really look much like a girl. He was too scrawny for one thing. It’s not like he’d been able to eat enough to get any extra meat on his bones in a long time. And his legs were too hairy, and his feet were too big, and his chest was too narrow, and his face was too sharp.
Still, there was something about the way the skirt swirled a little when he moved, drawing attention to the long, lean muscle of his thighs. Something about the way the waistband clung to his hip bones, riding low, emphasizing the scant curve of his hips and the slimness of his waist. Something just a little girlish maybe. Something pretty even, maybe.
But what the fuck did that matter, really. No one else would ever think so but him. And he shouldn’t be thinking it either.
When he tore the skirt off, he ignored the faint pop of torn stitches and shoved it roughly back into his bag, then buried it under everything else he loaded in on top. At some point, he’d have to throw it away, like he should’ve let Andy do in the first place. He’d only have to keep it a little longer, just until he found somewhere he knew he wouldn’t be caught disposing of it. Just until then.
—
The third time was way too close a call.
He shouldn’t be doing this at home. He should’ve thrown the fucking skirt away at the first opportunity. But Charles had sort-of-on-purpose let himself forget that it was still wadded up in his pack, lying in wait beneath everything else he’d shoved in on top during his last-minute packing frenzy before going home for hols.
But now there it was, looking surprisingly not much worse for wear. The only untested item in the entire heap of crap he’d dumped out of his bag while searching for something to cover his bits that wouldn’t irritate the fresh welts still oozing down his left side. He’d already thrown on his oldest, softest tee, which he only still kept because it was worn thin and light enough to barely graze any wounds when he moved, but all of his pants and trousers hit wrong. The waist or hips were too tight, or they dug in at just the wrong spot, or the fabric was too heavy or too rough. It all just fucking hurt.
The skirt though… Charles eyed it critically, weighing the potential for comfort against the possibility his father might suddenly reappear for round two. It seemed unlikely. Round one had been plenty effective enough.
And fuck it. What did it really matter anyway? After tonight’s typically grim display he was just sick of fucking pretending. Pretending he was looking forward to visiting home. Pretending that school was any better. Pretending the way his friends acted didn’t make him feel sick half the time. Pretending to go along to get along, paper mache smile pasted to his face in layer over layer until he wasn’t sure he could even take it off anymore.
Pretending he hadn’t kept the skirt because he actually, really, just wanted to wear it again. And if his parental shitstain did decide to make a reappearance, at least the thrashing would come for a reason Charles fucking understood for once.
So he slid the thing up over his legs and settled it gingerly around his waist, and it felt… nice.
It didn’t hurt him for one, at least not any worse than he was already hurting. But also, he felt nice wearing it. He felt…pretty. Cute. Sweet. Sexy? Yeah. Yeah, fucking sexy. Why they hell not? There wasn’t anyone else here to tell him otherwise.
The little pleated skirt floated over Charles’s thighs and made his legs look about 5 kilometers long. He turned in place a bit, enjoying the fluttering swing of the fabric around his hips, thinking about the ways he'd seen girls move in their clothes. Unfortunately, attempting to sway his own hips like he remembered sent up a flare of pain so bright it left him gasping.
Right, he’d bashed into the railing on the way down the stairs. Maybe less moving around in general then.
He settled down on his bed instead, back propped against the wall, and stretched his bare legs out across the rumpled sheets. The skirt draped over his lap, covering all the necessary bits but not leaving much to the imagination regardless. He’d always liked that when he went out with a girl. Liked how she could make what she wore seem sexy and sweet all at once, demure or daring with a simple cross of the legs or part of the knees. Liked looking out for a flirty flash of thigh to let him know she was proper interested, liked being invited to touch, liked that he could just slide his hand right up her leg and keep going, the barrier of her clothes so flimsy it might as well be metaphorical.
But sometimes, like now, when there wasn’t anything else to distract him and his thoughts slid a little sideways under the weight of the pain he was so tired of carrying, he wished more than anything that someone wanted to touch him like that. Wished someone would look at him and see something sexy and sweet, something inviting, something that deserved a touch that was kind, a touch that gave instead of taking.
Maybe if he’d been born a girl things would’ve been different. Maybe he’d still have a bedroom upstairs and he’d be allowed to fill it with the soft things he hadn’t yet grown out of wanting.
A pounding fist rattled the basement door and sent Charles flying off the bed with only a sheet to hide himself. “Don’t you go getting comfortable down there, Charlie boy! I've still got a list of chores with your name on it. You get your lazy fucking arse up here before I drag you out myself!” his father’s voice ricocheted down the stairs.
Fuck! Shit, fuck, hell, that damned fucking cunt! He ripped the skirt down his legs, not bothering to stop when his skin ripped open again with it, and yanked on the nearest pair of joggers as he stumbled toward the steps.
He thanked every fucking piece of shit god in heaven or wherever else that the click of the latch never came. He could hear his dad’s heavy footsteps move back from the door as he pulled himself painfully upstairs, leaving the skirt discarded in a heap of bedding and mismatched clothes. He couldn’t afford to think about it any more; he had to keep his head on straight now. Whatever his dad wanted him to do, if he played this right, he probably wouldn’t get beat again. Once was usually enough for a single night.
When he found the skirt again, a few days later and half a dozen bruises richer, he threw it in the trash. It wouldn’t help to go back down that road, not after he’d nearly gotten caught.
So he tossed it, like he should’ve let Andy do to begin with, and definitely-on-purpose went about forgetting the thing had ever existed. Which worked great, for about 35 years.
—
The fourth time surprised him.
Charles hadn't planned to actually go out like this. He’d just been fooling around. Ever since Port Townsend and the Cat King and the staircase in Hell, the old idea had come back to haunt him.
Charles had thought things were finally settling back in, despite the Niko-sized hole none of them could bear to look directly at while trying valiantly to repair. But as the weeks wore on and they made tentative attempts to be a bit more open about their respective issues, Edwin had started changing his clothes. Soft looking jumpers, long pressed trousers, and polished dress shoes began appearing, taking Charles by surprise in the way every new outfit made his own thoughts seem to go a little soft and fuzzy at the edges too.
Which he figured was a good thing, for sure, if maybe a bit confusing. Edwin trying new things was always a cause for celebration, even if the impetus no longer seemed to need to come from Charles himself anymore.
It's only… if Edwin, essentially a fixed point around which Charles had orbited for over 30 years, had started to change things up, then Charles felt his own axis start to tilt off center.
And so, that thought had started to creep in around the edges. The one he’d efficiently ignored for decades. The one the Cat King blew wide open lounging on his minging throne, knees casually spread beneath the pleated skirt draped tantalizingly over his lap. The one that cropped up every time Edwin changed his jumper and looked so pleased when Charles noticed. The one that made him wonder if it wasn't time he made some changes of his own.
He’d waited for the office to be empty before giving it a try. Not wanting to revisit any memories he'd rather forget, Charles aimed to imitate some of the girls he used to see at the clubs instead. The Rude Girls with their straight black skirts and suspenders. Dressed just like one of the boys, really, except for that little difference.
He must have stared down at his own naked knees and calves for a bit too long because, when he saw the mirror ripple with Edwin’s impending return, he realized the sky was going dark and he was still standing in the middle of the office wearing the skirt he wasn't remotely ready for the other boy to see.
In a panic, he dropped straight through the floor, not stopping until he hit ground level and burst out into the alleyway. But he hadn't meant to be outside like this either. It felt too exposed.
The sky was rapidly darkening towards night and the alley was empty, but he still felt like there were eyes peering at him from every shadow. A shiver of phantom goosebumps raced up his bare legs and the air suddenly seemed to hold a ghostly chill. He wanted to run right back up to the office, change back into his usual trousers, and hide until the urge to put the skirt back on faded into the level of background noise he knew he could ignore. Except that Edwin was up there now, and Charles couldn't face the questions he knew would come if Edwin got a good look at him.
He couldn't stop his father’s voice reverberating in his skull, “don't be such a pansy, boy,” “you won’t be leaving my house like that, you look like a bloody poof,” “nobody asked for your opinion, those queers’re gettin’ what’s comin’ to ‘em.” A spiraling litany of vitriol that was a lot easier to ignore when it wasn't directed inward at himself.
But slowly, all that nastiness echoing inside him was burning away the shaking fear that chilled his bones, sparking up into something hotter. It'd been decades since Charles let that wanker have anything to say about him or how he lived; why the fuck was he still letting him dictate this? That familiar feeling, easy and comfortable to pull on as the old shirt he’d used to keep for especially bad nights, was rising up to replace the tremor in his limbs with the warmth of anger.
So fuck that. Fuck his dad and fuck his awful lingering voice in Charles’s head. Fuck everyone who’d ever want Charles to feel shit about this. Charles liked the skirt. And if whiskers could walk around wearing one like god’s fucking gift to fashion, then Charles could grow a pair and take a bloody walk without having a meltdown. Exposure therapy, right? Like Edwin had said when he’d had to sort through that box of cursed baby dolls last week. If Edwin could be so very brave about that, then Charles refused to be a coward about this.
He stomped off into the night, determined to walk until the naked feeling went away entirely. He knew Edwin would be waiting for him when he was ready.
—
The fifth time felt like a leap of faith.
Eventually, Charles was going to have to leave the closet. Ha! Well, okay, probably that too, eventually. But in this case he meant literally.
So, he told himself again: it was only Edwin out there. The girls were out doing “secret girl things,” which Charles could not begrudge them after Niko’s recent and joyous return to the material plane. Plus, it provided him with this perfect opportunity, if he could just manage to take advantage of it.
The thing was, he knew Edwin would never hurt him, at least not on purpose, and the likelihood that he’d have an issue with Charles trying out some new clothes was slim to none. But Charles still couldn’t shake the creeping panic setting in as he smoothed his straight, knee-length skirt over his thighs for the hundredth time, trying to work himself up to just grabbing the knob, turning the handle, opening the door. At that moment, it seemed an insurmountable list of tasks.
“Charles, are you alright in there?” Edwin’s voice, calling from the other room, startled him from his spiraling thoughts. “I know you’re busy reorganizing the bag of tricks, but I haven’t heard a peep from you in some minutes and I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve fallen in?” Luckily, Edwin sounded only curious, as opposed to truly concerned, and far enough away that Charles assumed he was still seated behind the desk.
“Yeah, mate, I’m aces!” Charles called back. “Be out in just a tick!” He thumped the backpack around a few times for some plausible deniability then smoothed his skirt down once more for good measure. Edwin’s faint scoff of amusement was just audible above the ruckus.
Officially out of time to finish "reorganizing," Charles left the bag slumped in the corner, took a deep, if technically unnecessary breath, and swung the door open.
“You know,” he started, steeling himself as Edwin’s head rose from the book he’d been reading to focus on Charles as he took a few steps towards the desk. “I’ve been thinking I might like to change up my wardrobe a bit. Like you’ve been. Try something new…” he slowed down as Edwin’s expression smoothed out, wiped completely clean as the other boy instantly smothered his first reaction, his eyes scanning Charles quickly from head to toe. “I, um… I hope that’s alright…” Charles stumbled to a halt, fidgeting in place and unable to continue the speech he’d planned, eyes glued to Edwin’s blank face, waiting for judgement.
Edwin’s gaze caught for a moment around the level of his knees before darting back up to meet his own. And all at once Edwin's expression broke open again; eyes crinkling and the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in a smile so full of affection Charles suddenly couldn't remember exactly why he’d been so anxious to begin with.
“Charles, of course that’s alright.” Edwin assured, a splash of confusion coloring the warm timbre of his voice. “What you choose to wear matters to me not at all. As long as your clothing pleases you, that is all I care about.”
“Oh! Well, yeah, good then.” Charles's cheeks hurt with how wide his grin had spread and he ducked his head, looking down at himself. “I think I like it. Might wear it more often, yeah?” He peeked up at Edwin without lifting his head.
“As you like.” Edwin answered with a gentle smile and a small shrug, fiddling with the pages of his abandoned book. When his eyes shifted aside, Charles caught the faintest hint of pink appear across his cheeks. “I think you look rather fetching, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Edwin cleared his throat and Charles felt giddy; a rush of joy like tiny champagne bubbles rising up through his legs, filling his chest, running down his arms, and lifting his head up once more. His whole body fizzed with it.
“Thanks, mate.” It came out sounding a bit choked, but Charles supposed that was par for the course. It was only one of the most wonderful things anyone had ever said to him in his entire existence. He thought he might like to hear a Edwin say it a few more times; just once or twice a day, forever, might do it. “I really don’t mind at all.”
When Edwin’s eyes swung back to meet his again, Charles would swear he saw happy little bubbles popping and sparkling there too.
—
The rest was anticlimactic.
It’s not like Charles expected the girls to throw any kind of a fuss, but he’d imagined some light teasing maybe. A sweetly snarky remark, at least. He was well prepared to laugh it off. He was surprised how relieved he felt when he didn’t need to.
Crystal’s knowing smirk came with a brief “looking good today” but when Niko saw him her entire face scrunched up in pure delight. She gushed, she cooed, she heaped him with compliments the likes of which he’d tried to keep himself from hoping for.
Under the fountain of praise, Charles couldn’t help the warmth he felt seeping over his cheeks and overflowing to the tips of his ears. He grinned back at her.
“Thanks, Niko. Thought I’d try something a little different,” he aimed for casual, stuffing down the unexpected attack of bashfulness that made him want to cover his flaming cheeks and shuffle his feet.
“It suits you,” she promised.
“It really does, Charles,” Crystal added softly, stepping up to grab one of his fidgeting hands with both of hers. “Thanks for trusting us with this.” He looked into her open, accepting face and it was almost too much sincerity to process. He felt a bit like he’d swapped personalities with Edwin, so overwhelmed with emotion he couldn’t hardly think of what to say. Fortunately, his partner could always be relied upon in situations like this.
“Indeed,” Edwin’s interruption dripped with fond exasperation. “You look very smart, Charles,” he swept them all with a skeptical look, “However, unless we are changing our name to the Dead Boy Designers, I believe we have a new case to carry on with?”
And so, with Edwin leading the way and the girls at his sides, Charles carried on, excited for a new day that felt just a little more honest, and a little less scary, than yesterday.